


The Killer in Me is the Killer in You

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Consent Issues, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roughness, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Themes of dominance and submission, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing has ever felt as horrific as seeing the look of betrayal in Stiles’ eyes as Scott sinks his teeth into his wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Smashing Pumpkins song "Disarm". More in depth (and therefore spoilery) content warnings exist [in the end notes](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/3238619#work_endnotes)

Scott has felt death as it’s coursed through his hands --- life draining out of a body as vital organs collapse and fail. He’s seen a soul be locked away, deep within a person, every essence of their true self hidden. He’s had his agency stripped and his control shredded, forced to hurt the ones he loves. But nothing, _nothing_ has ever felt as horrific as seeing the look of betrayal in Stiles’ eyes as Scott sinks his teeth into his wrist. 

*

He’d fervently, foolishly hoped that after the nogitsune had been defeated things would go quiet, at least for a little while, long enough that they could all gather their strength, but the opposite has occurred. Every couple of weeks there’s a new disaster, another foe. Some days he doesn’t know how he’s still struggling on. He thinks he should be done with hope by now. 

Choices are important. In many ways they’re all he has left. So he chooses to keep trying. 

It’s been one in a never-ending stretch of long days when Stiles climbs through his window, knees knocking loudly against the window sill, overlapping his muffled cursing. 

“You have a key,” Scott reminds him, not bothering to look up from the notes he’s reading. 

Stiles ignores him, settling into his computer chair with a creak. “Still no news?”

“I’d text you if there was.”

Stiles’ tone goes tight and questioning. “You sure about that?”

Scott looks up at this, lets out the breath he was holding. It sounds like a sigh. Maybe it is. “After the last time? Yeah. I sometimes learn from my mistakes.”

Scott hunches his shoulders and returns to his notes. There’s a group in town who call themselves the ‘minions of Agares’. Agares is a demon tied to earthquakes and profanity and Scott can’t deny that reading about him makes him want to tell everyone and everything to fuck off. Agares is also frequently depicted riding a crocodile and that’s just stupid enough to make Scott roll his eyes and continue searching for a way to stop the people who call themselves his followers. Having dealt with Peter, Gerard, Deucalion, Jennifer and the nogitsune, he’s well aware that stupidity is the worst of all evils. Or at least a close second to intelligence.

“I didn’t come here to argue,” Stiles says, curt.

“Who’s arguing?” Scott returns mildly, because he knows it infuriates Stiles and sometimes he can’t help himself, he has to keep picking at open wounds. 

The chair arm snaps off. Scott frowns at it, but shrugs. He broke many valued possessions when he was first bitten and he knows it takes time to get used to the strength. Plus, he’s fairly sure it was deliberate and Stiles is trying to get a rise out of him, judging by the way he’s glaring, challenging.

“Why did you come here?” Scott asks softly. 

Stiles hasn’t come to Scott of his own volition in a month and a half. They’ve fought every occasion they’ve been in the same room within that time. 

“Lydia said you needed help.”

Lydia would. She’s been trying to patch them back together. Doesn’t listen when Scott points out they’re misshapen and won’t fit anymore.

“Okay. Well, I’ve gotten through most of this, but I haven’t touched the bestiary yet. Maybe there’s something there.”

Stiles lets out a snort. “I would’ve checked there first.”

Scott nods. “I would’ve too, except, y’know, it reminds me. Of her.”

Stiles scoffs again. “Emotional blackmail now. So good of you.”

Scott clenches his jaw, tries to ignore the jab. He wasn’t --- yes he sometimes deliberately antagonizes Stiles, winds him up like he’s constantly being wound, but he would _never_ use Allison in that way and surely Stiles knows this, knows him better than anyone? 

“I couldn’t,” he chokes out, too far gone already to claw it back. He stands, takes a step toward the door, remembers that this is his room, his safe space. He steels his resolve, hardens his voice. “You need to go. Take what you want, but leave.”

“And what if I want you?” Stiles asks, standing too close, wrapping a hand over his arm. “What if I need you?” There’s a light, mocking laugh and then, “My Alpha.”

Scott swings to punch Stiles, but maybe he telegraphed it too clearly, perhaps their Alpha-Beta connection is that strong, or most likely, Stiles really does know him too well --- Stiles ducks under his fist and lands a punch of his own to his sternum. It hurts, but not enough to deter him for long. It’s Stiles barreling him into the wall that stops him short. Scott snarls at Stiles, growls, but he just bares his fangs back. He’s holding onto Scott’s arms with all his strength, pinning him to the best of his ability. Scott could work his way free, but he’d break something and they’re broken enough already.

“I get that you’re angry with me,” Scott says. “I’ve admitted that I fucked up. How many more times do we have to dispute this? What do I have to do to make you stop hating me?”

“I don’t hate you,” Stiles says, dropping his arms. He rocks back on his heels. He swings his hands around, gesturing to everything and nothing at once. “I hate this.”

“I know you do. But I’d do it again. Every time.”

Stiles stares at him for a beat, turns to pick up the bestiary, and vaults out the window. Scott collapses back onto his bed, drained. And that’s how it always seems to go these days; the beginning of the quarrel and never the resolution, never the part where they hug it out and go back to being friends. Scott really doesn’t know how he keeps hoping.

*

He can still taste the salty-sweetness of Stiles’ skin against his tongue, the tannic of his blood. He wakes up drenched in sweat, the picture of it etched into his mind’s eye. How he cradled Stiles’ ashen body. How he was terrified Stiles was going to blow to dust like the nogitsune inhabiting his carbon copy. How he raised his arm delicately and bit with a sickening crunch. He unconsciously swipes his tongue over his teeth whenever he thinks about Stiles. He only knows this because his mom asked him if he has an ulcer. He does, but it’s not physical. It’s an imaginary acidic burn in his soul, borne from frustration and guilt and self-loathing.

But Scott’s not regretful. Not really. That’s half the problem. He’ll take Stiles’ mockery, goading and continued spite if it means he’s alive. 

He doesn’t care that a case could be made that he’s no better than Peter. He doesn’t care that it’s looking like he and Stiles will never be friends again. He doesn’t care about much at all. It’s a thing he’s coming to terms with.

He’d never understood his mom when she said love could make you do terrible things that even the part of you that was capable of hatred would renounce. But he thinks he gets it now. 

*

The ‘minions of Agares’ have gone from leaving ominous bloodied messages to causing earth tremors, which they had all predicted. Scott really feels like they need to deduct points for lack of originality. He then thinks about how his internal monologue sounds a lot like Stiles and he sits down and gazes at the wall for a while, to gain his bearings, to not think about anything. 

Derek says he’s closer to finding out where they’re hiding in town. Dr. Deaton says that he’s positive there are seven members of the order and that sounds easily containable. Lydia and Stiles are figuring out how to vanquish them if they choose not to go along with Scott’s negotiations, (“leave town, don’t look back.”) Everything looks set for success, so of course there will be failure. 

*

He’s right. Scott’s taken to hating when he’s right, because it’s never about good things. Someone’s throwing flaming balls of earth at him as he runs down the alleyway. He’s trying to draw fire, because even though Stiles is nine times faster, nineteen times stronger and ninety times nastier than he ever was before, he’s still slipped over three times in this chase already. Scott doesn’t know how they’re going to train him out of that and has a monetary flash of Stiles being made to run with books on his head. He laughs. He can’t help it. He’s going half-crazed with stress. 

Malia’s a few yards ahead and what he can sense from her isn’t good. It feels like she’s having trouble controlling her shift. This has been happening less frequently, but it still happens and they don’t have many ways of getting around it without finding somewhere quiet so she can find her anchor. There’s nothing Scott can do right this second and he hates feeling so inadequate, so useless in the face of adversity. He speeds up, feeling the phantom of flames lick at his heels, and hopes to hell there isn’t another warlock on Kira’s, Stiles’ and Derek’s six. 

“Wasn’t the whole point of this to be offensive rather than defensive?” Malia yells, skidding around a corner into a narrow lane way that isn’t a dead-end like Scott thought it was.

“I’m not known for causing offense,” Scott gasps back, because he’s sick of everything being so dark. He glances backward as he travels down the lane. No one follows them. He keeps expecting them to appear, block out the light on the other side, but that doesn’t happen.

“Why are you punning while running?”

He smiles at her for a moment, appreciates that she went for the joke. There isn’t a lot of humor in his life lately, and even bad jokes lighten his mood. 

There’s hardly enough room for Scott and Malia to be alongside one another, but they just about make it, shoulders occasionally knocking. Still no sign of fireballs.

Before he can come up with a rejoinder, they’re back onto a wide road --- Scott thinks it’s actually Main Street --- and he can see Stiles, Derek and Kira up ahead. He sprints, encourages Malia to follow, catching up to them with little effort.

“Everyone okay?” he checks, eyes automatically sliding over Stiles’ body. He can’t help it. Stiles was almost incinerated thirty minutes ago. Scott has the right to be concerned. 

“No visible injuries. Plenty of mental scarring, but nothing that’ll slow us down,” Kira says, patting his arm. “You guys?”

“We’re good,” Malia replies, giving her a hipcheck. 

“They were retreating,” Derek says. “Except for the one with the magic tricks. Is he still following?”

“Maybe. But he could easily have caught up by now. We’ll have to split up again.”

“Genius plan. A+ for effort,” Stiles says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“The problem wasn’t the plan, it was the intel,” Derek counters. 

“So they’re about a thousand times more powerful than we thought. And they have a warlock. And they knew we were coming. That doesn’t mean everything’s hopeless!” Kira says, brightly.

“It isn’t? How come?” Stiles asks flatly.

“That was a rhetorical question, I think,” Scott cuts in, before Kira can launch into her speech about how they have each other. He’s heard it before. They’ve all heard it before. And it’s sweet, and she means it, but no one looks in the mood.

They split up. They don’t know who’s watching and it’s safer this way, but it’s also a smart move in terms of giving them all some space. Scott trudges to Derek’s in a round-about way, musing on frustrated thoughts about his lack of knowledge when it comes to magic. He knows that it requires a lot, that the energy has to come from somewhere, that there are always consequences. He wonders if it would be possible to overload the warlock, ply him so full of power he implodes.

He wonders if the same’s true of him.

*

Scott’s sitting on one of the new couches at the loft, head bowed. He’s been staring at his shoes for four minutes, replaying the fight and trying to reason what he should have done differently. 

“Derek, don’t tell me you’ve been giving Scott brooding lessons again,” Stiles says, sitting next to him. He presses his fingers under Scott’s chin, tilts his head from side to side as if he’s trying to examine, prod and poke. 

It’s a perfect parody of something Stiles might have said and done before everything went to shit, tone completely different and eyes soft rather than cruel. He snaps at Stiles’ fingers, but doesn’t expect to capture one. Yet there it is, Stiles’ index finger between his teeth, trapped. Scott doesn’t know why he does it, but he darts out his tongue and licks the tip, gets it warm and wet. Stiles stares at him, expression unreadable, closed-off and static. Scott releases his hold, scoots back into the armrest. 

“I’ve been studying you, actually,” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“I don’t brood, I’m lightness itself.”

“You sulk.”

“Oh, I sulk? I’m the petulant one?”

“Why won’t Lydia notice me? Why is my best friend ignoring me? Why can’t I be the hero? Why did I have to become a werewolf?” Scott intones in a whiny voice, rolling his eyes.

Stiles pounces on him, knocks him back into the armrest. “Why can’t I make first line?” Stiles whines back, digging his fingers into Scott’s hair and pulling his head back. “Why did I have to become a werewolf? Why was my shaky chance at becoming a pathetic loser again snatched away?” He looms over Scott and it’s weirdly thrilling. Scott sucks in a breath, doesn’t unseat Stiles. Stiles yanks on his hair again, bringing his head forward, until they’re inches apart. “Why do I have to be held accountable for my actions?”

“Why can’t you both shut the hell up and leave each other alone?” Derek asks, dropping a heavy book onto the other side of the couch and peering down at them with no small amount of menace. 

Stiles springs off Scott like he’s been scalded, paces to the other side of the room. Scott watches him, wonders what would have happened if Derek hadn’t interrupted. Would they have come to blows again? He hates that he doesn’t hate the idea. He thinks it must be a werewolf thing, the need for contact, little discrimination about what that contact actually entails. He’s never felt it like this before, but then, he’s never had his own Beta before. The desire could all be coming from Stiles, but transmitting via their newfound psychic connection.

Scott is a little worried sometimes by how genuinely little he knows about being a werewolf.

“I’m gonna head home, do some more internet research,” Stiles says, voice deceptively blank.

Once upon a time, there would have been eyebrow wiggling and a sly grin at that, but there’s no point pretending either of them is in the frame of mind for those kinds of jokes. Scott doesn’t get up, just gives a short, sharp wave and pushes deeper into the couch. Derek sees Stiles to the door, pressing a hand against his shoulder in some kind of comforting gesture that Scott’s not going to analyze or allow himself to fantasize replicating. 

When Derek turns toward him, he looks pinched and stricken in the same way he always gets when he’s asked for advice. He doesn’t often impart his wisdom without being asked, though, so Scott’s curious about what he’s going to say.

“You remember what’s like to be bitten, how difficult it is to remain in control when every emotion you feel is amplified. You need to be patient with him.”

“If you’ll remember, I was patient. I was patient, calm, loving, and apologetic, for _weeks_. It made it worse. But if I strike out at him, he can strike back, he can vent. He needs to do that. He needs me to be his enemy right now, so that’s what I’ll be.”

Derek huffs out a breath. “It’s making you miserable.”

“So? Seriously, Derek, so what? You think there’s a version of my life where I get to be happy? A version where I deserve it?”

“Not with that attitude.”

Scott barks out a laugh, shakes his head. “I don’t know what other attitude to have right now. I’m trying, okay? I’m doing my best.”

“See, I don’t believe that, because I’ve seen you before when times are tough and you still act like you’re made of sunshine. At the moment you’re not even a night light.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor. There’s a reason you don’t do this stuff.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re depressing. Between your self-pity and Stiles’ rage the pack feels unsteady. You’ve noticed how Kira basically never comes to our meetings anymore, haven’t you? Or have you been too self-involved to even see that?”

Scott rubs at his forehead. “I’ve talked to Kira. She also has family stuff to deal with.”

“Convenient.” 

Scott thinks about it. Sometimes they actually feel like a unified team, like a real pack --- ties stronger than family, bonds almost unbreakable --- but then he and Stiles get into another argument, or not even that, just project a chill in each other’s direction, and the sensation disappears. He’s marveling at the fact it’s Derek who has the gall to bring it up, though. Derek, who initially failed spectacularly at being any kind of positive role model. Derek, who has done so much to make up for mistakes that Scott’s been slowly realizing were ones he was pushed or manipulated into.

“I can’t believe you’re telling me off for being too maudlin.”

“Times change. People do too. Just don’t give up yet, that’s all I’m saying,” Derek says, forcing a light-hearted note into his voice that’s entirely at odds with the expression on his face.

“So you think I should go back to not reacting when Stiles invariably goes for my throat? ‘Cause it wasn’t pretty.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, sounding gentle now. He sits down next to Scott, nudges into his side. “Maybe. Perhaps you should keep doing what you’re doing, but not take his reactions to heart.”

“We’ve always had each other’s backs. You really think I can ignore that he’s pissed off with me? That he has a reason to be?”

“Not ignore, but see it in a different way. Part of the reason Stiles is mad is because he can’t hate you.”

“Oh, yay.”

“They always say it’s a thin line between love and hate.”

Scott twines his fingers together, grinding his knuckles. It’s a welcome pain. “I don’t think Stiles loves me anymore.”

Derek knocks into him. It jostles Scott to the side. “Then you’re a fucking idiot. Look, I know --- I can’t condemn you for your actions, because I did something similar, because even though I know the same thing happened to you, as a born wolf I still don’t get why anyone would reject this power, this opportunity. None of us wanted Stiles to die and all of us would probably have done the same thing under the same circumstances. But he sees it from another perspective and we have to accept that. Like I learned to accept you.”

“You weren’t there,” Scott says quietly. It isn’t an accusation, although he knows it could sound like one.

“No,” Derek admits. “I wasn’t.”

“Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if I wasn’t either. If I made a different choice. It’s a physical pain just thinking about it. You say I’m miserable now, but the alternative is so much worse.”

“So like I said, give it time.”

Scott scrubs a hand over his face, looks at Derek through exhausted eyes. “When did you become an optimist?”

Derek shrugs. “When I had no choice.”

*

He expects an attack, but none is forthcoming, which is --- well, it’s probably a really bad sign. He throws himself into school, work, lacrosse practice, anything with which he can occupy his mind. It isn’t overwhelmingly successful. Three nights a week he patrols with someone else from the pack. They have a rota going. The Minions of Agares (Malia added the capital M to ‘minions’ because she claims it’s more menacing) have moved and no one knows where yet. Peter said he’d help track them down again. They ignored him. 

On Friday night, Lydia contrives a plan in which he ends up sharing his protect-Beacon-Hills-at-all-cost shift with Stiles rather than her. He’s grudgingly impressed by the lengths she’s gone to. She even lets him drive her car. Had he known it would be to trick Stiles into climbing into the passenger seat, he would have refused, he thinks. Once upon a time, Lydia wouldn’t have cared enough to have bait and switched them. Now it seems to be a hobby. 

Having successfully avoided one another at school, which really wasn’t easy, because they share three classes and all their friends, they’re now crammed into a tight, enclosed space together. 

“I’m not gonna bother getting out again,” Stiles says, squaring his shoulders. “It’s freezing out there.” He shakes his head, gives a low grunt. “I knew it was weird she told me to meet her here.”

‘Here’ is on the edge of the preserve. The Jeep is nowhere in sight so Stiles must have either walked here, been dropped off, or taken a taxi, all of which are potentially dangerous and involve effort. Really, Lydia was easily playing on his and Stiles’ inability to think logically. Scott wonders if, deep down, they both subconsciously knew. He was distracted when she gave him her keys earlier on and fed him bullshit about a biology project.

Scott starts the car, begins on the circuit they’ve devised for keeping a look-out. He clutches tighter onto the steering wheel, trying to concentrate on the road, but continually failing and finding his eyes skimming over to Stiles. Being in close proximity reminds him of how easily he slips into the same breathing patterns, of how calming he finds his scent, of how much he wants to touch.

There have been several silent, tense minutes before Scott bites the bullet and speaks.

“How are you?”

“Mercifully alive,” Stiles says with a quirked eyebrow. His expression does something elastic and unreadable. “You?”

“Same.” 

He’d like to say more. That he’s missing Stiles, that he’s afraid, that he would give almost anything to return home again and have it be the source of safety and comfort it once was. That home has nothing to do with a physical space and everything to do with the people in it. But he doesn’t say any of that. 

Another minute goes by. Scott taps out Stiles’ heartbeat on the dash. “How d’you think you did on Ms. Martin’s chemistry pop quiz?”

“I aced it.”

“That’s awesome.”

“I know.”

Scott turns down Main Street, gets stopped at the red light outside the theater. There’s a long line for one of the movies and he looks at the sign to try and determine which. He turns back around to ask Stiles, but he’s faced in the other direction, looking like he wishes he were anywhere but with Scott. It stings. It’s surprising how he continues to be cut up by Stiles’ reactions to him. It always hurts all over again with the same vigor.

“You’re not actually going to talk to me like I’m a real person, are you?” Scott says, quietly.

Stiles shrugs majestically. “Don’t really see the point. You’re only going to ignore me anyway.”

“You ever get tired of endlessly repeating yourself?”

“Do you?”

Scott has the worrying urge to roar at Stiles until he submits and bares his neck. It itches under his skin. He can imagine it so clearly, Stiles down on his knees for him, golden eyes flashing. He isn’t proud of the thought, not even a little, but it settles something inside him. 

“I’ll drop you off home.”

Stiles crosses his arms against his chest. “At the end of the patrol.”

“Really? You want to do this for another three hours?”

“It’s my duty to do this for another three hours and I’ll do what I can to protect my town. You think I’d give up just because your face makes me angry?”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe you should shut your mouth. I’m staying. Why don’t you go home? I can give Lydia back her car.” Stiles grinds his jaw. “Warn her against pulling this kind of stunt again.”

“This is my duty too,” Scott reminds him, driving toward the part of town the Minions were seen last. He looks everywhere but at Stiles, surveying their surroundings. There’s nothing particularly glaring. 

He doesn’t say that it’s more his duty than Stiles’, because he knows it’s not true. Technically, he’s stronger. In theory he’s more powerful. But in reality he knows that Stiles’ conviction and drive counterbalance any physical advantages he might have. They both want to ensure the safety and happiness of those they love. It isn’t an idle desire, it’s necessity.

The rest of the night passes in relative silence. They swap responsibilities halfway through, Stiles taking the wheel and Scott concentrating completely on the world outside the car. He focuses as much as he can on the task, but part of him can’t help but dwell on the fact that they’ve never been this distant while being so physically close.

*

Saturday morning sees him cleaning out the examination room with Dr. Deaton and preventing himself from yawning every time he remembers he’s supposed to be acting like a productive member of society. He’s finished sweeping the floor, is about to go clean out the empty cat cages, and is already thinking about what he can have for lunch. It’s just gone past 8 am. The buzzer goes and Scott rolls his eyes. There’s always someone who doesn’t read the instruction about texting before trying to get their pet seen to out-of-hours. He opens the door, expecting to have to be a calming influence as usually when this happens people are in panic mode, but there isn’t the pandemonium he expects. Stiles’ dad is standing on the other side, expression apologetic. Scott moves to the side and waves him in, sucks in a breath when the Sheriff claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“Good to see you, Scott, how’ve you been?”

“Not the best I’ve ever been, but I’ll survive.”

Scott’s never been able to lie to the Sheriff. He hasn’t seen him beyond a glance in a month and he didn’t realize how much of a gap that had left in his life until this moment.

“I came to ask Alan if I could steal you away for breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that. I ate a slice of toast before I left home.”

The Sheriff smiles at him, ruffles his hair. It’s fond and it makes Scott want to dig his claws into his palms. “I’ve seen you eat before, Scott. You’re telling me you couldn’t scarf down three waffles right now? And, admittedly, I have ulterior motives.”

“You can take him,” Dr. Deaton says, coming stealthily behind them as he is wont to do. Scott gazes at him imploringly, but he ignores that in favor of picking up the straw Scott was going to use.

Scott follows. He can’t protest without calling attention to it. He used to love traveling in the cruiser, but it lost its appeal when he started spending time within it because he was in trouble. When they pull up to the diner, Scott gets out and waves at a kid staring at him in shocked intrigue. 

He orders waffles. He might as well.

“Stiles isn’t telling me everything I’d like to know,” the Sheriff says without preamble. 

“What would you like to know?”

“These minion people --- they’re not cute little yellow fellas?”

Scott grins before he can stop himself. “Uh, no. Sadly they’re full-grown humans. At least one of them is a warlock. They seem to be gathering strength. Those earth tremors? That was them. We tracked them down last week, but they knew we were coming and attacked us. We haven’t figured out where they are since.”

“Anything I can do, I’ll do it. Patrols. Back-up. Whatever you need. I owe you that much.”

Scott plays with the syrup bottle, watching as the glass tilts from side to side. He can’t look at the Sheriff. His heart’s in his throat and he’s sure his eyes are watering. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Scott, I owe you everything. There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not aware of that.”

He swallows against the sandpaper of his throat, not knowing how to respond. He’s saved by his order arriving. It looks delicious, but honestly it doesn’t taste of much at all. Scott cuts his waffles into little sections, like he’s always done, has them swimming in the syrup. He and the Sheriff eat in companionable silence for a few moments, but then Scott decides he’s going to ask what he’s been wondering for a while. He feels bad talking about Stiles behind his back, feels like this is one in a long line of violations, but he needs to know.

“Is he still having nightmares?”

“Yeah, he is. Bad ones, too, but they don’t happen as often as they did.”

Scott nods. Digs into another piece of waffle. 

“He isn’t being needlessly reckless, is he? When you’re fighting the good fight?”

Scott casts his mind to the occasions they’ve been out. Stiles has followed the accepted strategies, hasn’t struck out on his own. “He’s keeping himself safe as he can, same as we all are. He’s learning how to control the shift. That takes time and training.”

Scott can see the Sheriff tilt his head in his peripheral vision. “But he doesn’t wanna train with you?”

“Not even a little.”

“He’ll come around.”

Scott looks up. “Everyone keeps telling me that, but truthfully half the time I don’t think he should have to.”

When he’s back at the clinic, Scott sets himself specific goals and a time frame to complete them in, so that he doesn’t have the freedom to dwell on things. Dr. Deaton watches him carefully and he’s fully aware of it, but he’s not up for a lecture and he doesn’t really want any more well-meaning advice. He does what he needs to do and then he escapes without being emotionally compromised any more. 

*

There’s an earthquake at the school on Tuesday morning. It’s larger than a tremor, but it isn’t hugely damaging. It feels like a test. The pack ensures everyone’s safety and then goes on a hunt for the culprits. Scott teams up with Kira this time and they spend their time talking about her mom. It’s a great distraction and they bond over parental issues. Kira also talks about Malia and Scott teases her to the best of his ability --- which isn’t that great, and mostly involves him fluttering his eyelashes, but she blushes anyway.

He cherishes his friendship with Kira and he’s fairly sure it’s the strongest sign things wouldn’t have worked out between them that he isn’t sad they haven’t gone further than a couple of shared kisses. Kira’s crush on Malia far outweighs any residual romantic feelings she has for him. And that’s okay. He’s not capable of devoting himself the way Kira deserves. 

They convene at Scott’s early the next day. It turns out they still haven’t gotten any new information, so Scott contacts the Sheriff. When Stiles finds out he roars in his face.

It’s possibly one of Scott’s least noble moments when he roars right back. It feels incredible, to let his ferocity take form, to allow his instincts to run free. He no longer believes that the wolf is a separate part of him, that he can be neatly divided into person and wolf, mostly because moments like this feel entirely human. He wants to _claim_. Stiles cowers for a moment, expression horrified, but as soon as Scott stops, as soon as he’s reaching forward to lift him up, he knocks him into the wall. Stiles scratches at him, snaps wildly, punches him in the face, so Scott kicks, jabs the claws of his left hand into his side. They have to be dragged apart. 

“Your dad’s home,” Scott says, rubbing at his jaw. “He sent a few deputies to patrol. He offered, Stiles.”

Stiles surges for him again, but Lydia and Malia hold him back. “When? When did he offer? How does he know to offer?”

“He came and asked me what was going on. I told him, because I thought he should know.”

“You think you know everything,” Stiles mutters. He sounds broken. 

Scott’s text alert sounds and it’s a text from the Sheriff with an address. He holds his phone up. “No, I know I don’t, but this is something I’m right about.”

There’s a murmur around the room. Everyone’s exhausted and they don’t have a plan, but they want this to end.

“We can’t do anything now,” Derek states. “I’ll call Chris. He still has plenty of contacts that we can pay. They can keep a look-out.”

“By ‘we’, you mean ‘you’, right?” Malia asks. “Because I haven’t gotten a job yet and judging by Stiles’ outfit, he’s penniless.”

Stiles flips her the bird, adjusts his shirt. He doesn’t look in Scott’s direction.

“Yeah, I mean me,” Derek says with a roll of his eyes. 

With their flimsily cobbled together plan in place, they separate. Scott flops down onto his bed and lets sleep overtake him. It’s shockingly easy to do.

*

From the new intel they’ve had gathered, there is only one warlock, but everyone else acts as a guard. Dr. Deaton has been analyzing their actions and says that they’re raising Agares from the underworld, that Agares is half-risen already. This is apparently possible. Scott figures he shouldn’t react like this is the weirdest thing he’s ever heard, but he does every time. Some minutes he can just about live his life without having to suspend disbelief. 

The only way Dr. Deaton knows how to stop Agares’ continued ascension is to perform a counter-ritual at the same time the Minions of Agares complete theirs. They’re going to continue staking out where the group’s staying, keep an eye on their movements, but they’ve gotten reinforcements so it’s less work than it was before. Instead of patrolling the streets, Scott’s learning the correct way to pronounce Old French. It has to be seven against seven, with Dr. Deaton as their spiritual anchor --- the opposite of the warlock. 

It’s a waiting game and it makes everyone noticeably tense. The instances where he and Stiles interact make the atmosphere even darker, so Scott decides he’s going to ask for a stalemate. He rides his bike to Stiles’ place, wills himself not to linger at the door or ride off again. Stiles opens up before he can, gestures him into the house. He looks tried and angry, but that’s nothing new. Scott hovers in the living room, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

That’s a lie. He knows what he wants to do with his hands. He wants to reach out and grab Stiles, hold him close and never let go. 

“What do you want?”

“A peace treaty. Until this is over.”

“This is never going to be over, Scott.”

“I mean until once we’ve defeated Agares. After that, we can go back to our petty squabbling.”

Stiles glares at him, looks fiercely away, goes back to staring, and then seems to make up his mind. He shoves Scott backward onto the couch, pins his shoulders into the cushions, sits on his legs to keep him still. 

“You think I’m being petty? You should know what I have to deal with every day. Haven’t you been through this? Or, no, it wasn’t so bad, because you had someone to rely on. Someone who had your back.”

Scott could unseat Stiles, but he doesn’t. Like in the loft, he’s entranced by Stiles’ proximity, thrumming with a need to get closer. 

He lets out a shaky breath, gazes steadily. “I want to be that person for you, but you keep pushing me away.”

“Yeah. Do you know why? Because sometimes I want to destroy you. I could, you know? You’re an Alpha, but it’s possible. Shock you, spear you on my claws. Burn you, slash your throat. I think about the time with the sword and imagine it really was me, holding you at my mercy. I want to tear you apart, feel your blood on my tongue, your heartbeat in my hand.”

This isn’t unanticipated. He’s been sensing it for weeks. 

Stiles settles closer and Scott is perplexed by how his body reacts, how he’s primed and ready for Stiles to take whatever he wanted. His instincts keep telling him to tilt his head back, offer himself. He wants Stiles’ mouth on him, sucking bruises and making his mark. That’s not right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It’s all down to wires getting crossed in his nervous system, his hormones playing merry hell with his senses. If he had a choice he wouldn’t choose getting hard like this, at this time. But there are no choices here. He’s not in command.

“I’d be so powerful, if I did it,” Stiles says, hushed, frantic. “I could do anything I wanted, after. Build an army, conquer the world.”

“So why don’t you?” Scott asks, staying as still as he can. He can smell his arousal and it’s like a feedback loop, the more he breathes it in the more aroused he feels. “What’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know. Because in those moments I don’t remember that I love you, I need you, you’re my brother. I just remember the fury.”

Stiles’s leg rubs against his inner thigh again and Scott tenses, swallowing thickly. Stiles’ long, slender fingers are digging hard into his shoulder, into his side. Scott visualizes them wrapping tightly around his dick and can’t stop his hips from bucking up. He hopes it looks like he’s trying to struggle against Stiles’ hold. He can tell by Stiles’ immediate assessing narrow-eyed gaze that it’s a fruitless hope.

“You’re getting off on this,” Stiles says, disbelieving. “I’m baring my heart and soul to you, my darkest, deepest fears, and you’re chubbing up.” He looks down at the bulge Scott can’t conceal, then stares into his eyes. He smiles for the first time in a long time, but it isn’t sweet like it could be, isn’t warm like Scott misses. It isn’t mean either, though, doesn’t have a trace of cruelty. It’s teasing, casual. “And I thought I was perverted.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of werewolves, where inappropriate reactions are normal. You’re lucky I’m not back flipping out of here,” Scott replies, giving his best facsimile of blasé.

Stiles looks behind himself, at nothing in particular as far as Scott can see, but when he turns back he seems even more calculating than before. “You want me to do something about that?”

As bad jokes go, it’s one of Stiles’ worst --- the kind of provocation that Scott’s getting sick of, so he raises one shoulder, blinks twice. “If you want.”

Scott’s made a lot of mistakes since becoming a werewolf. He knows this. He’s well aware that seven eighths of the time he has no idea what he’s doing and the final eighth he only succeeds through sheer dumb luck. He's overestimated, underestimated, trusted too much and too little. He's been condescending in his protectiveness and not protective enough. And he wishes he could say that this is all stuff he's done in the past, before he knew better, but it'd be a lie. 

It's no wonder he's made this mistake. He hasn't gotten a good read on Stiles in weeks. Stiles’ hand curves around until it’s resting at his neck. He rocks his body back until there’s space between them, until he’s hovering more than restraining. He thumbs at the button of Scott’s jeans. Scott clutches at his wrist, eyes going wide.

“Whoa, what’re you doing?”

Stiles prods him with his free hand. “I asked. You agreed.”

“That’s not --- I thought you were kidding!”

“Why would I?”

“I dunno, maybe because this is the opposite to the correct response of you confessing that you think about killing me.”

Stiles arches his eyebrows, slides his teeth over his lower lip. “But you still responded this way.”

“I can’t explain why.”

“What’re you afraid of, Scott?” Stiles scoffs. “Worried it’ll ruin our friendship?”

There are a lot of things Scott should say here. That he doesn’t think either of them are in a fit mental state to be engaging in this kind of relationship. That this shouldn’t feel as right as it does. That they’re on the verge of giving into something they would ignore if they had any sense. But all he can think is that if he can’t have Stiles’ consideration, if he can’t have his affection, he might as well have his body. 

He lets go of Stiles’ wrist, smooths his fingers up his forearm. His nerves sing with it, such simple contact. He wants to touch Stiles everywhere.

“I need to know that you want this. That I’m not unduly influencing you,” he says softly. 

“That’s cute. The way you make something arrogant sound altruistic? You’re adorable, McCall.”

“Stiles…”

Stiles leans in, kisses his jaw. Scott closes his eyes, savoring it. “Yes, I want this,” Stiles says, tone rich. “Now, are you going to listen to me this time?”

He nods.

“Look at me, Scott. Tell me again.”

“Yes, I’m listening,” Scott reiterates, gazing into Stiles’ eyes. They flash gold and it makes him shudder. 

Stiles slips his hand into his jeans, palms his cock. He’s still hard, straining against the material. Scott wriggles his hips, helps Stiles tug his clothes down and out of the way. They don’t go far, stuck at his knees, but that isn’t important right now. Stiles looks at him, lips parted. There’s a pink flush in the follows of his cheeks, intent in his eyes. He kneads the fingertips of one hand into the back of Scott’s neck as he gently strokes the other up his cock. 

It’s already a kind of sensation overload. Scott doesn’t know what to concentrate on; their harsh breaths jetting into the air, the dryness of the tongue against the roof of his mouth, the friction of Stiles’ skin against his own. He tries to remind himself that this is nothing so magical as two bodies moving in tandem, but it feels like more than that, it feels incredible. 

“You like that? You want more?” Stiles asks before licking his palm. 

Scott refuses to feel ashamed about the moan that escapes his throat. He sucks in another deep breath, rolls his head until he can feel the wood of the backrest behind him. 

“Yeah,” he slurs, belatedly, though Stiles has started to stroke him already, slick and warm and so fucking good. “But I wanna touch you too.”

He’s a little worried Stiles will refuse, will be soft, will say this has all been the sick joke he initially thought it was. It’s baseless paranoia. Stiles opens his own cargo pants and cranes into him. Scott likes that, likes when they’re almost skin-tight. He stretches forward and presses his hand against the bulge of Stiles’ boxer-briefs. Stiles feels so hot against him and he traces the line of his cock, curious. He’s seen it before, but not really like this, not because of his actions. He’s thought about it. He can’t deny that. He’s imagined this scenario, though not like this, not edged with anger, but with affection.

Stiles continues to stroke Scott as he carefully peels his waistband down. There isn’t any rhythm to it and it’s tentative, rather than the rough he was expecting, given the look in Stiles’ eyes. The pressure’s erratic, but it makes the muscles at the base of his abdomen tighten regardless. Precome’s helping slick the way, sliding down his dick more than usual, especially when Stiles rubs over his slit. It feels like he’s throbbing, his blood rushing hard and fast.

Scott spits into his own hand, wraps it around Stiles’ cock. It’s thick and fascinating. He tries different movements, opposing styles. Slow and torturous, fast and gentle, more movement, less. Stiles bucks up and encourages him, thigh muscles tightening.

“You look good like this,” Stiles says. “Single-minded. Desperate. I forgot how pretty you can be.”

Scott nudges forward and captures him in a kiss. 

He thinks there’s every chance he wasn’t supposed to, that he’s crossing a line, but he must be wrong, because Stiles opens up for him sweetly, whimpering into his mouth. The kiss is heat and exploration. He loses himself in it, in finding out what makes Stiles arch up, what makes him suck harder on his tongue. He nearly forgets that they’re doing anything else, but then Stiles will hold him at the base of his cock, will play with his balls. Scott whines, grinding into the touch and redoubling his efforts to kiss Stiles senseless.

There isn’t any finesse to it, but it isn’t vicious either. Stiles’ lips feel soft as they rub against his, but his stubble is coarse. It’s a perfect combination of opposites, which is how Scott would have described their friendship once upon a time. He’s so eager for it, for all he can get, which Stiles must sense, because he cruelly pulls away. Scott practically squeaks. 

Stiles gazes at him, irises nothing but thin rings around his pupils. His lips are swollen, his blush full-faced. There’s a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his jaw that Scott wants to lick. 

“You close?” Stiles asks, voice husky.

He is, but he doesn’t want this to end. “We need to change position a little,” he says rather than replying.

Scott shuffles, grabs hold of Stiles’ ass and hauls him tight. Their cocks slide together and the touch is a shock like a brand. Stiles smirks at him and he wants to remember that look forever. It’s not loving, but it’s _knowing_ and that’s almost good enough. 

Stiles holds his palm out and Scott spits as he suspects he’s being asked to, shivers when Stiles adds more saliva. Stiles wraps his hand around the both of them and Scott can’t contain his high-pitched gasp at that, at the sensation of Stiles’ cock pressed against his own. There’s nothing gentle about Stiles’ strokes now and he seems to have found his timing. Scott anchors himself with a hand on his shoulder, and he knows the rub of his thumb is a caress, but he doesn’t want to hold back. 

Stiles comes before he does, spurting out over Scott’s cock and belly in long arcs, white and wet. There’s something unmissable in the way his eyes go dazed and his mouth opens wider. Scott noses up against him, sucks his bottom lip between his own. There isn’t much of a response, so he stops, but then Stiles chases after his mouth again. Scott concentrates on the kiss and doesn’t much care that Stiles has stopped stroking him off. He holds him tight, thumb pressing into the divot of his hip, rocking up into his solid weight.

He wants to rub Stiles’ come into his skin, so he does, then licks his fingers, needing to taste. Stiles shudders again, gusting out a slow breath.

Scott tightens his own hand around his cock and begins to stroke, but Stiles bats him away and starts a jerking action that’s half-twist, half-tug nothing like Scott’s ever felt before. He’s slower than this, usually, more careful. He’s beginning to wonder why. 

It only takes a nip to his jawline and two more pulls before he’s coming with a choked off sound. He collapses against Stiles, trembling through the aftershocks. He doesn’t want to move, ever again. Doesn’t want to step away from this moment, here. 

“I’ll get a washcloth,” Stiles says, divorcing himself from their tangle of limbs with his usual amount of clumsy grace. 

Scott knocks his head back, rubs at his cheek with his clean hand. He doesn’t know what happens next and this terrifies him. 

When Stiles returns, he’s efficient and completely lacking in warmth. He gives Scott some spare clothes, offers him a glass of water. Scott declines, says he should probably go. Stiles doesn’t stop him. And Scott wonders if this is just another one of their quarrels --- the beginning, and never the resolution.

*

He can hear Stiles’ low-throated groaning as if it were happening right next to him, but it’s several months and miles ago. Scott buries his head into his pillow, presses his hands over his ears.

“Please let me die,” Stiles murmurs, clutching onto Scott’s hand. “It hurts. It hurts. I _can’t_ live with these memories. Let me go, Scott, let it happen.”

“I can’t. I won’t do that.”

Stiles grasps at him, fingers weak as they tug him further down. “Please.”

Scott scrabbles at the floor near Stiles’ head, scrunches his eyes shut tight as he can. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I don’t deserve to live.”

“Yeah, well you sure as hell don’t deserve to die, Stiles. I won’t let it happen.”

It had been the first time in a long time that he hadn’t tried to do the right thing, hadn’t attempted mercy, hadn’t been considerate. He’d ignored Stiles’ wishes, for his own selfish gain, fully aware that it might not even work. He could have tried to justify it as not allowing another father to lose their child, that there could be no more death that day, but that would be a lie. Scott bit Stiles because he couldn’t bear the thought of continuing on without him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to snoopypez for Ameri-pick and hand-holding. All remaining errors are mine.

Scott’s used to pain. He’s had to deal with it almost his entire life. A tight chest and twitch under his skin aren’t new. He’s adept at ignoring it until it gets worse or goes away. He can handle it for as long as he needs to. And it will go away eventually, even if it’s to be replaced by a newer, more visceral agony. 

He reminds himself of this every time he thinks about Stiles. Which is a lot, probably too often, but he can’t stop. He replays Stiles’ weight on him, the slide of his hand, the way his mouth was red and open like an invitation. He wants to go to him, let Stiles pin him down and take him apart, have him take out all his aggression and need for control. It isn’t really about wanting to be dominated, although he gets the appeal, it’s more about wanting to give something to Stiles that he should never have taken. He can handle this too. He’s been working on pulling back from impulsive urges from a young age. His responsibilities to restrain his impulses as an Alpha may have increased exponentially, but it’s nothing he hasn’t encountered before. 

He hasn’t seen Stiles for a week and a half. Hasn’t sought him out, hasn’t been sought. He thinks this is the longest they’ve actually been apart since he spent a summer with his dad, age 13. Not knowing how they’ll react to each other makes him feel like someone’s digging out his insides with a claw. He’s as terrified about his own response as he is Stiles’ and that isn’t right, that’s completely fucked up. Through all his past confusions, surprises and uncertainties, he’s always known who he is, deep down. Even when Peter was messing with his mind, even when Gerard and then Deucalion and the Darach were trying to manipulate him, he _knew_. Now, he’s lost. 

He isn’t so good at coping with hurry up and wait. His life feels like it’s at a standstill. He thinks that if he could be a more patient person, he’d be a better man. He says this to his mom and she pats him on the shoulder and tells him he’s supposed to be a kid. It’s not as comforting as he thinks it’s supposed to be. 

He continues to learn Old French. It continues to be difficult. He can never seem to get his mouth around the vowel sounds, struggles with the nasal consonants. He isn’t particularly good at speaking Spanish and that’s the language three of his grandparents speak better than English, so he isn’t surprised he’s finding this hard. The thing about pronunciation is that it’s about being able to discriminate between fine variations and minute alternatives and then apply that knowledge, and that’s never been one of his skills. He works at it, though. He knows he has to, but he wants to as well. This might not be the only time Old French comes in handy. 

Scott also trains with Malia. They meditate and spar. Scott gives her any advice she asks for, offers some she doesn’t. It’s surprisingly easy with her. He wouldn’t exactly say she’s well-adjusted, but she’s as adjusted as the rest of them, and that’s good enough. She sleeps in a pile of blankets on the floor when she crashes at his or Derek’s place, refuses the bed --- says if she wanted to be swallowed by a giant marshmallow she’d damn well go and buy a giant marshmallow. There are lots of little things she doesn’t know about; songs and movie references and stupid fads. But she picks things up quickly, even if it’s slightly out of date, so there’s two weeks of her describing everything in terms of how “fetch” it is, another of her calling everyone her “peeps”. She finds Scott’s old Optimus Prime Voice Changer helmet and plays with it constantly. She spends hours looking things up and treats her smartphone like it’s some kind of oracle. Apparently, her first few phone bills are gigantic and her dad has to take out a loan to pay for them. 

Malia has extra tutoring every Thursday evening, but they’re all helping catch her up on the important learning she’s missed out on as well. Malia spends time with Lydia for math and the different sciences, Derek for history, Scott for English literature, Stiles for econ. Kira works on more general study skills, for all of them, actually, since they’re all as likely as the other to get caught up doing anything other than hitting the books. Over time, Scott comes to realize there aren’t as many gaps as there should be in Malia’s education. 

“I used to steal books,” she says when asked about it, shrugging a shoulder. “I imagine they used to refer to me as the coyote textbook bandit. I didn’t --- I hadn’t completely given up on humanity.”

Sometimes she shifts by accident and refuses to turn back for the rest of the day, sometimes she shifts by accident and _can’t_. This is usually when she’s in a crowd. Malia can’t always deal with crowds, says they’re suffocating. It’s during one of their sparring sessions that it happens with no one else around. Scott sneaks up on her, grasps her by the waist and she shifts and bolts out the garage into the house. He finds her in the kitchen, apologizes profusely, but all she does is paw at the tiles and start to whine, obviously in distress. Scott coaxes her out from under the table and help her center herself, breathe. 

He flashes his eyes at her and she looks away for a second, before looking back and shifting. He goes to get her clothes, hands them over.

“Do you ever wish you weren’t a werewolf?” she asks, thumping her head into a cabinet as she wriggles to put on her jeans. Her expression is neutral, but she still smells anxious, embarrassed. He’s seen her naked enough times to think it’s not because she’s dressing in front of him. 

“Not anymore. I used to, all the time. My first two months of being a werewolf, the only thing I wanted was to find out how to stop, how to be normal again. I was so focused on this idea that if I could go back to being a defenseless little asthmatic kid everyone around me would be safe. But I don’t know, I don’t think that’s possible in Beacon Hills. I think I’m more useful like this.”

“So that’s the only reason? A sense of usefulness?”

Scott worries at his thumb, rearranges the words in his head. “No. There are other reasons too. But I feel bad about them, if that counts?”

Malia snickers, rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t surprise me.” She tilts her head to the side, gazes at him knowingly. “Sometimes I want to go back to being a coyote fulltime, but that was never all I was. Maybe it’s the same with you. Deaton once said to me that he’d always known you were destined for greatness.”

“With respect to Dr. Deaton, I don’t subscribe to his theories about me, about any of that. His support is sometimes the only thing that gets me through, but he’s kinda dramatic. It’s like a side effect of being a druid, I think.”

“He believes in you.”

Scott quirks an eyebrow. “Are we gonna burst into song, because I might need a few minutes to warm up.”

“You know, when he was telling me about you, Stiles vastly underrated your levels of sarcasm.”

“That’s because he’s always canceling me out.” 

Scott stretches, shakes his arms and legs vigorously. His wrist is sore, tingling like it’s healing. He hadn’t realized he’d injured it. He leans against the kitchen counter, tries to lower his center of gravity, appear casual. 

“What else did Stiles say about me?”

“Nope, not gonna happen. I’m not your go-between. You wanna know what Stiles says, you need to go to the source.”

“You were the one who brought him up,” he points out, trying and failing not to sound defensive.

Malia spreads her hands out wide. “If I’d known it would lead to an interrogation, I wouldn’t have. Some of us have our own concerns to live with and don’t want to get involved in the bid to fix your epic bromance.”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “Okay, first of all, I never said you didn’t. Second, don’t call it that.”

“What would you like me to call it, then?”

He falters. ‘Friendship’ is on the tip of his tongue, but he isn’t sure it’s applicable anymore. 

“Relationship is fine,” he says. “And sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward situation. I was curious, that’s all.” 

“I’m not being a bitch,” Malia says, “at least, that’s not my intention. But I didn’t know you both, before. I heard you together once, I talked to Stiles about you briefly. All I know is who you are now and I’ve been told it’s different, I can see how it probably would have been --- but that’s the extent of my knowledge. So I’m staying out of it, as far as I can.”

“Yeah, I get it. To be honest, I feel like everyone who knows us is expecting us to one day turn around and spring back to normal. But I don’t think that’s an option anymore. I don’t think it ever existed.”

He doesn’t tell Malia he isn’t positive he wants it to be possible. Some things shouldn’t be said.

Malia gets up, rubs her hands over her hips. “Okay. So. Teach me your stealth tactics? You scared the shit out of me. I need to know how.”

Scott smiles against his better judgement, leads the way to the garage. They run through a series of warm-up exercises, practicing correct formation, because even though in a real fight they can’t stick to rigid rules and codes of conduct, being able to balance properly will increase their efficiency. He’s learned a lot about how to inflict the most possible damage with the smallest amount of energy. It’s not a life skill he’d ever want to put a value on, but at the moment it’s invaluable. 

Scott shows Malia how he used the wall as leverage to barrel at her, how he uses small, quick steps to move silently, how he utilizes the objects around him to swing, jump and catch himself. 

“Did Derek teach you this?” Malia asks, untying and retying her hair.

“Some of it. Mostly I practiced on my own. I wanted to be confident enough in my abilities I could talk myself out of a fight. The best kind of lie is laced with truth after all.”

“Plus, you look totally badass.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Malia punches his upper arm, possibly with more strength than she means to, or possibly not. He grasps her wrist, pulls around and keeps her in the air, kicking out and screaming. When he slows his momentum, she stomps on his foot. 

“You’re such an asshole.”

Scott doesn’t know if he should be happy she’s insulting him, but he is. He grabs a bottle of water from the bar fridge in the corner, throws it to Malia, before getting one for himself. 

“We should turn that into one of our signature moves. Hey, look, there’s a bad guy, lemme fling you right at them.”

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” she says, grimacing.

“Actually, probably reading too many comic books,” he counters. “You know, I’m curious about your answer to the question you asked me. Do you ever wish you weren’t a werecoyote?”

Malia twists her cap back onto the bottle, beckons Scott in challenge. “Every second I’m not wishing I wasn’t human.”

*

Seeing Stiles again for the first time is like a vice around his lungs and he instinctively reaches for the inhaler he hasn’t had to keep in his pocket for nine months. Stiles is talking with Danny, eyes alight in mischief. His body is lax, craned toward Danny like they’re sharing a secret. Scott digs his nails into his palms, bites down on the urge to let them extend into claws. He has no right to be feeling like this, like he wants to go disrupt them, because he’s the only one Stiles should ever smile like that at. It’s a dark, disgusting little part of him, and he won’t indulge it. 

He walks out the cafeteria, eats a bag of fritos at the lacrosse field, watching the freshmen train. They all look tiny and vibrant and he tries to remember feeling like that, feeling young and free and untested, but all he remembers is feeling weak and trapped and unwanted. In his freshman year the only person he could count on beyond his mom had been Stiles. He hadn’t even been able to count on himself, his body had constantly betrayed him. No matter how strong he tried to get, there was always another coughing fit around the corner. 

“Still avoiding me, I see,” Stiles says, sitting next to him on the bench, like he has done a thousand times before. Scott blames his distraction for not realizing he was close. His heart is pounding a samba in his ribcage and he knows it’s loud enough to hear. Stiles chooses to ignore, that, though, continuing on with, “Wait, is there a step above avoiding? Eluding? Eschewing? I suppose it could be a form of shunning.”

“You’re avoiding me too,” Scott points out. “This has been mutual shunning.”

“Yeah, but I was deciding not to today, so it would’ve been good if you hadn’t run away with your tail between your legs.”

“How can I know when you’re deliberately in the same room as me as opposed to accidentally when we had to swap classes to be apart?”

“You could have come up and asked.”

“Okay, next time I will.” Scott chances a look at Stiles and finds him staring at the field, gaze unfocused. Instead of continuing to follow his eye line, he watches the side of his face. He imagines playing connect-the-dots with his tongue, remembers sucking a kiss to the mole just below his ear. “Why did you want to see me?”

“Just did. It’s not a crime, is it?”

“You’d know that better than I would.”

“Okay, so if I were stalking you all Police style, every breath you take, every move you make, it could be considered a 921 or 921P, maybe with a 507 included, intent for 288.”

Scott crumples up his fritos packet, enjoys the feel and noise of the foil crackling. It sounds like his confusion. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“That was kind of the point.” Stiles toes at the ground, squints into the distance. “Malia kicked me in the head and told me to talk to you.”

“She’s such a liar. She said she didn’t want any part in fixing us.”

“It was after I asked her about you, so, I think she meant it.” Stiles glances at him. “You think we can be fixed?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Scott rolls his head around, wills his chest to stop constricting. His words come out sounding harsh, choked. “We agree on something.”

“Way I recall, we agree on many things. Doesn’t seem to help, though,” Stiles says, flat. “I wanna get better at coordinating, at shifting when I want as opposed to when I’m angry. Derek says he won’t train me unless he’s my last option, says it can be detrimental to learn from someone who’s not your Alpha. He cited you as an example of when things go right. The tone of his voice wasn’t complementary. Help me, Obi-Scott Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

Scott’s heart jumps at this. He can’t tell if it’s in excitement, or fear, or a combination of the two. When it comes down to fundamentals, he craves a closeness with Stiles that he’s been denying for two weeks too long. Though this isn’t the kind he wants, it’s an opportunity. He isn’t going to spurn Stiles, even if he should. 

“I’ll provide any assistance I can,” Scott says. “Fair warning, my early lessons were with a jackass who tied me up with rope and pelted me with lacrosse balls.”

“It was duct tape, and it worked.”

“That should be your life motto. It was ‘insert horrible thing here’, and it worked. That time the two teenagers went into the woods to find half a body;- It was an experiment in frightening the life out of my best friend, and it worked, almost literally.” 

Scott’s going to continue on in the same theme, but Stiles interrupts. “I thought you didn’t blame me?”

“I didn’t.”

“But things have changed.”

“No. I didn’t, I still don’t. It was attempting to be a joke.”

“I’m always my most truthful when I’m joking.” Stiles’ throat clicks, his upper lip tugs up at one corner. Scott remembers capturing that lip between his own, sucking until it was red and swollen. 

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’ll be at your place, 8 o’clock,” Stiles says, standing. “Don’t keep me waiting, or I’ll eat all your food.”

“Like you need an excuse.” 

Stiles walks away without looking back at Scott, gait relaxed and stride firm. Scott doesn’t know if he should stay seated, or rush after him, ask what to expect. He feels like he’s fizzing beneath his skin, muscles he’s never thought about tensing reflexively. 

He’ll be late for class if he doesn’t get moving, but when he rises, his knees are suspiciously loose. It takes a moment to gain his bearings, gather himself into some semblance of upright. His concentration is shot, after that. Not a single period goes by where he doesn’t think about Stiles’ eyes as they gazed at the field instead of at him, the mouth that hung open between words like it wanted to be occupied, the quiet twist of his words like a sword through his gut.

*

Scott’s about eighty-five percent absent from work. He can’t focus, keeps misinterpreting Dr. Deaton’s instructions. Whenever he tries to have an original thought, it’s pushed to the side for more dé ja vu. He mentally replays the skip of his heart, the curl of possessiveness in his belly, the need to stretch out and touch. He has so many questions swirling around his head. Was Stiles being deliberately restrained, or does he not care? Is he making up excuses, or does he really think Scott can help him? Perhaps it’s all of these things, maybe it’s none. 

Dr. Deaton sends him home early. He gets there at 7:45 and immediately showers, dressing in a tank top, boxers and a pair of sweats. He hears Stiles downstairs rifling through his cupboards as he pulls on one of his hoodies. It’s too loose, but comfortable. It’ll be coming off soon anyway. There’s the distant crisp crackle of cereal, an appreciative-sounding moan. Scott adjusts himself, bites down on his lower lip to stop thinking about how he could entice Stiles make that noise again. It’s 7:57 when he clatters down the steps and joins Stiles in the kitchen.

“Couldn’t even wait to eat me out of house and home,” he says, swiping the box and grabbing a handful of nutri-grain. 

“I need the energy. I’m a growing boy,” Stiles returns, fiercely stealing the box and cramming more cereal into his wide-open mouth.

Scott casts a glance over him, feigning assessment. “Hmm,” he murmurs, non-committal. Stiles reallocates his weight, shuffling from one foot to the next.

The truth is, Stiles doesn’t look that much different from before the bite. He looks considerably better than he did when possessed by the nogitsune, but not necessarily more than he had in the weeks preceding that. He’d been gaining definition and muscle, from lacrosse, from running for his life. His shoulders had already filled out from when they were fifteen, his arms had become corded and strong. He’s always been more or less taller than Scott, though the gap’s diminished in the last year or so. But Stiles _does_ look different. It’s more in how he holds himself, how he fidgets less, how his hyperfocus extends to his stance as well as his gaze. 

“Ready to get started?” Scott asks, walking through to the garage without waiting for Stiles’ response. It follows him anyway, just as Stiles does, standing in the middle of the cleared-out room, bouncing around like he’s on the edge of frenetic. 

“Sure, why not. Bet you’ve been dreaming of laying the beat down on me for weeks.”

“Yeah, because that’s totally the kind of person I am. Spend every minute wanting to inflict maximum pain.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t tried to punch me before now.”

Scott rolls his eyes, grinds his teeth. “I’m not proud of it.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

It’s a simple, seemingly careless comment, but it makes Scott reel as if Stiles had slapped him in the face. He has a point. He has a point and Scott doesn’t know what to do with that. He worries he’s like his dad, willing to excuse every impulse, push the responsibility onto someone or something else, run away when it suits him. He has a long way to go before he stops continuing the patterns his father laid down for him. Because Stiles is right, sometimes a punch seems like an easy option, sometimes it feels like the only way he can communicate. It shouldn’t be, he has to do better than that.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel unsafe,” he says, though he knows it’s inadequate, hollow.

Stiles almost looks amused, eyes clear and nearly golden enough they could be glowing. “This growing boy can take care of himself,” he says, thumbing toward his chest and clicking obnoxiously. “Not like I haven’t wanted to punch you. Hurt you. Bite you.”

Scott doesn’t step back, though he wants to. He doesn’t acknowledge the words at all. He doesn’t know what you’re supposed to say when you’re trying not to fall for a taunt. It feels like he’s always trying and rarely succeeding, these days. 

He reminds himself they came in here with a purpose, or at least this is the lie they were telling one another.

“You say you’re having trouble with coordination, but when we’re playing lacrosse your aim can be perfect, so what do you do differently?” he asks, thinking about what he sees as Stiles’ main weaknesses. He isn’t sure coordination is in the top three. 

“What, you mean apart from everything?”

“Yeah. What’s your thought process when you’re about to pass, or shoot a goal, or hit your best friend in the balls?”

Stiles looks nonplussed. “Usually I just visualize what I’m gonna do and then I do it?”

“Okay, then. Bring it.”

When Stiles advances, it’s shaky, slow, like he’s thinking about what he’s doing while he’s doing it and that’s all wrong. It doesn’t take anything for Scott to block his attack and keep out of his way, dodging each intended blow until Stiles is red in the face. He doesn’t strike out at Stiles and that’s an advantage, he thinks. Stiles is excellent at getting a grip on him when he comes close, but if he keeps his distance, he’s left flailing.

“It doesn’t look like lack of coordination to me,” Scott says, barely breaking a sweat. 

Stiles barks out a laugh. It’s an angry sound; overwhelmingly low and bitter. “What do _you_ think my failings are?”

“Balance, for one thing. Strategy for another. You’re thinking too hard and at the wrong time.”

Stiles charges for him, but Scott could see the decision in the flicker of his eyes, and he ducks to the side at the last second. Stiles slams into the wall, grunting loudly. He crumples down, leaning his head against the bricks. His chest is heaving and his claws are scratching lines down the wall, catching in the mortar with a ‘snitch’ sound that makes Scott wince. Scott watches him for a moment, determines that he isn’t going to get up on his own, and goes to help him. 

Of course, Stiles spins and grapples him into a headlock. He really should have seen that coming. Stiles twists his arm around his back, traps one of his legs between his own. Scott would have to break a bone to get out of it, and he doesn’t think it would be one of his. He still thrashes, snapping his head back in the hopes it’ll connect. He crashes to one knee, attempts to throw Stiles off to the side, but he holds on tight. His forearm is blocking Scott’s windpipe, his claws are digging into his wrist. Scott jabs his free elbow back and feels a flare of pain at the same time he hears a sickening crunch. 

It’s easy at that point to gain the upper-hand, to clutch hold of Stiles’ shoulders and make him still. Stiles’ fangs have dropped down and his eyes are glowing gold. He glowers, curling his upper-lip, and he looks so much like a wild thing, Scott almost lets go. 

“What is it that you want, Scott? Want me to bark for you? Or, no. Want to bark for me? Go on, bow wow.” 

“Don’t. This isn’t you. You may not always be kind, but you’re not cruel.”

Stiles laughs again, eyes crinkling up and forehead creasing. “You act so sure of who I am. How can you be, when I don’t even know?”

“The same way you know me. Because I’ve watched you, listened to you, followed you for years.”

“You always know what I’m gonna say? What I’m gonna do?” Stiles asks. It’s a trap, Scott knows it’s a trap, but he holds his gaze anyway.

Stiles dislocates his shoulder, punches Scott’s sternum hard enough to temporarily wind him. He barrels him into the wall, and Scott feels everything inside him rearrange. It happens in a split second, Stiles pinning him, whole body pressed tight. One hand is planted above his head, the other is cradling his jaw. Stiles looks like he wants to devour him. 

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is. He shouldn’t be getting hard. Scott’s forgotten what that means, exactly.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Stiles whispers, eyes heavy-lidded.

Scott bucks into him. “I’m terrible at lying to you. Go or go ahead.”

What happens next couldn’t be described as a kiss. It’s too brutal for that. At first, Stiles forgets to retract his fangs. Scott’s lower lip gets cut up, until he can taste the tannic of his blood. Even when he finally remembers, Stiles licks into him with the kind of determination that becomes uncomfortable. But it makes him harder, somehow, has him clutching desperately for more. Stiles kicks open his legs and he lets him, widens his stance further, one foot hooking around Stiles’ ankle and keeping him close.

They rut against one another, hips working furiously, bodies colliding. Stiles moans as he drags their lips together, as he fists into Scott’s hair and pulls his head up a fraction. 

“Have you been thinking about this?” Stiles asks against the corner of his mouth. He’s rolling into Scott insistently, too urgent to remove their pants. The catch of cotton and denim against Scott’s cock is painful, but it’s a good kind of pain, one that makes him feel alive. “Been thinking about how sick you feel for wanting it? Or are you aching for more? We’re both animals now, don’t you think we should fuck like animals?”

Stiles bites at his jaw, licks up until he captures Scott’s earlobe between his teeth. His breath is quick and loud and sharp. It makes Scott want to urge him to slow down, to ask for more time. But not enough that he’s going to do it. He’s about to come any moment. He can’t help but cant his hips higher, adjust the position so that each time they move they’re rubbing, hard.

“We’ve always been animals, Stiles,” Scott returns, heart racketing within him so hard he thinks it might burst. He can’t think straight, finds it hard to put words into order, can only echo a thought he’s had increasingly frequently over the past few months. “Pretty soon you’re going to realize that your darkest impulses are always disturbingly human.”

“Not what you used to think,” Stiles mutters with obvious difficulty. 

He grits his teeth, thrusts like his body is refusing to cooperate with his mind. Scott takes control for the first time and holds his hips tight, grinds into him like he so obviously needs. He can hear, smell, _taste_ Stiles’ desperation.

“I was wrong,” he says, sliding one of his hands up Stiles’ torso and stroking his thumb over the hard nub of his left nipple. 

Stiles gives a deep, vocal shudder. Scott smiles before he can stop himself, curiously repeats the action on the other side. He’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, stuttering hips, and a dark, questioning gaze. He’s annoyed with the T-shirt blocking his view, annoyed with all the material between them, but he can tolerate touch rather than a visual if he has to.

Stiles pants, eyes flickering closed. He looks overcome, disheveled in the best way. Scott wonders what he’d look like against his sheets rather than the flaking bricks of his garage. He wants to see that, wants to be able to take his time with pulling Stiles apart, being broken into pieces himself.

“You… you’re not a monster?” Stiles asks with a groan. 

Scott doesn’t know why he’s still trying to talk. He’s beyond caring about their debate and well on the way to losing his mind. He growls low in his throat, increases the friction between them, watches intently as Stiles sucks in breath after breath, cheeks flushed bright and shoulders tensing. 

It’s only another minute before Stiles comes in his pants. He slumps into Scott, rests his head on his shoulder. Scott comes a few seconds later, too far gone to stop. He heaves in a deep, bone-trembling breath, slides partially down the wall. 

“Neither are you,” he says on a gasp.

“What?” Stiles stares at him, confused. His mouth is cherry red and glistening and Scott wants to kiss it again, a real kiss this time --- something soft and loving. 

“You’re not a monster, Stiles.”

“What I am is disgusting,” Stiles retorts.

Scott’s about to protest, but then Stiles is poking his tongue out the side of his mouth and pulling on his waistband with an exaggerated wince. It’s funny. Scott laughs. Stiles looks up at him, an expression like shock in his eyes. Scott shrugs at him, adamant he’s not going to let his gaze slip to the side. The truth is, Stiles brings out happiness in him even when he doesn’t mean to. 

Plus, they are kind of gross. His crotch is covered in damp, tacky material and he can feel a slow trickle of come down his thigh.

“Bathroom,” he orders. “I might be able to give you some pants to borrow.”

Stiles leaves after ten minutes, wearing a new set of gray boxer-briefs Scott bought a couple of weeks ago and the jeans that have always been too long for him. Scott would say Stiles is embarrassed if he didn’t know any better. Stiles is unsettled, but he doesn’t seem at all ashamed or self-conscious. Scott actually wishes his emotions were more ambiguous. He thinks he’d be happier thinking Stiles was as confused as he is, which is probably a hugely uncharitable thought that contributes to his overall assessment as a bad person. 

He goes back into the garage, surveys the damage to the brickwork. There’s a noticeable indentation there that has him cringing. He doesn’t know if they’ve accomplished anything today other than cracks through three bricks and a continuation of dysfunction in their relationship. He doesn’t know if there was any chance for something different.

*

It keeps happening. Scott doesn’t have any words for what ‘it’ is, but in between different life events and the daily grind, he and Stiles fall into a pattern of fighting and fucking. 

Some of those events include pack meetings, hanging out with Kira and giving her substandard advice on what to wear on her first official date with Malia, and discovering when the Minions of Agares are performing the entirety of the ascension ritual. Scott feels like he should be paying more attention, but he isn’t, he can’t. 

He spends his time wondering how Stiles can still look at him with cold, dead eyes when fifteen minutes before he was sucking a hickey into the base of his neck and telling him not to let it heal. He thinks about the hot, lean line of Stiles’ body against his when he should be formulating strategy for sneaking past the Minions’ defences. He remembers trying to teach Stiles how to meditate and ending up with a lapful of Stiles and three consecutive orgasms instead. He didn’t even know his body could do that. 

Sometimes he initiates it, crowding into Stiles’ space and laying his hands where he wants to touch. He traces veins, smooths over muscles, rubs them together until there’s nothing between them. Often it’s Stiles who corners him, attacking him with kisses that sometimes turn sweet and frequently turn filthy. 

If anyone else has figured it out, they don’t say anything. Lydia in particular is suspiciously quiet about everything to do with them. Scott has the uncanny sensation she’s biding her time.

Scott half-thinks this will lead to everything getting back to a state of okay. They’re drawn to one another like moths to a flame and that has to count for something. He makes the mistake of expressing this sentiment to Stiles after another afternoon of shared handjobs. Stiles looks at him with a hint of amusement in his gaze. 

“You think we can fix ourselves with our dicks? I mean, they may be tools, but ---”

“That isn’t what I was saying at all,” Scott cuts in with a sigh. He peels Stiles’ hand off his stomach, is about to roll out of the bed, but then he sees Stiles smile and he stops mid-air. It isn’t smug, or superior, or cruel. It’s a real smile, close-lipped, but genuine. His heart thumps traitorously quickly and he brushes a hand through his hair to distract himself, distract Stiles. “Yeah, okay, maybe I was.” 

“I wanna fuck you,” Stiles says in reply. “Really fuck you,” he continues with a weird series of head jolts and bared teeth. He adds a snarl. It should be seen as an embarrassing non sequitur, but it isn’t. It’s completely _Stiles_ and it feels right.

Scott bites at his lip, can’t stop his eyes from casting over Stiles’ dick as it lies plump and soft against his thigh. “Yeah?” he asks. His voice is huskier than a second ago and he can feel himself blushing. He looks up again into Stiles’ eyes. “You should.”

Stiles looks wary. “You ever been with a guy?”

“I’d definitely tell you if I had.”

“Maybe you would. Maybe you wouldn’t. It’s hard to say with you these days.”

Scott doesn’t see the point of being anything less than honest. He kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth, stays leaned in close and murmurs, “It’ll be okay. I’ve been opening myself up on my fingers since the first time we fucked.”

Stiles reels back, gazes at him with wide eyes. “Dude, you can’t just say something like that without warning.” He looks Scott up and down, lingering. “Really?”

“Yeah, why’re you acting so surprised?”

“I don’t know. I guess I assumed we’ve been playing a game of gay chicken up ‘til now.”

“So when you were balls deep, fucking me into the mattress, which one of us would’ve been winning?”

Stiles’ expression changes, becomes softer somehow. He gives a wry smirk, delicately presses his fingers against Scott’s jaw. “Clearly, both of us.”

Scott feels like he’s cracked a code he didn’t even realize he needed the cipher for. Stiles launches himself across the bed and opens the drawer of his nightstand, fishing out a half-used bottle of lube and an unopened packet of condoms. Scott was wondering if they’d be XXL, thinks maybe that would even be necessary, but they’re regular; no frills, no flavor, just peace of mind.

Stiles hands over the lube, irises eclipsed by pupil. “Wanna show me how you get all good and loose?” It’s an order, not a question, and it makes Scott’s whole body thrum. 

Scott’s done this a hell of a lot in the last few weeks, but never with an audience. He feels sure it’s going to look awkward and uncomfortable. He spends a whole minute trying to find a position that suits him, legs spread and leaning on one of his elbows. Stiles watches him, looking ready to micromanage him into place, until finally he’s flipping the lid on the lube and smearing it over his fingers. He’s turned on, but he’s also tense, so he closes his eyes and breathes for a while before tentatively teasing around his rim. 

He unexpectedly loves playing with his ass, loves dipping in and drawing out, seeing how much he can take. He loves stroking against his prostate and experimenting with how close he can get to coming with that alone. Knowing Stiles is watching him has him tighter than usual and having to go slower, gentler than he would any other time. He has one finger in to the first knuckle when Stiles makes a deep, punched-out sound and the bed dips lower. He opens his eyes to see Stiles staring at him in wonder, mouth hanging open and claws digging into the bedding. 

“You like that, huh?” Stiles asks, hushed. 

“Yeah, it’s…” Scott pauses, gathers his words, but can only find a few. “It’s really good. You ever ---?”

Stiles nods vigorously. “Not for a while. Been kinda concerned,” he says, lifting up a clawed hand and quirking an eyebrow.

“It’s okay,” Scott reassures him, exhaling shakily as he adds another finger and begins to push in and out. “Just need to think of your anchor.”

“I am, but it’s not helping right now,” Stiles says, gliding his palm over Scott’s side and hip. 

One of his claws skates along his skin and Scott hitches into it. He squeezes his eyes shut again, unable to concentrate on anything other than Stiles and the way he’s unconsciously rocking forward. He stretches himself out on three fingers, adding more lube and going as deep as he can go. Little sounds work out of his throat as he readies himself, imagining what it’s going to be like having Stiles hot and thick inside him. He moans, wrist sore as he finger-fucks harder and deeper. 

“I’m good to go,” he says after another minute, opening his eyes again to find Stiles fumbling with a condom packet. His claws have retracted, but he’s still clumsy. 

He laughs breathlessly, helps him slide it on, slick it up. His throat is dry and constricted and feels like it holds his heart. 

“How do you want me?”

“Hands and knees?” Stiles asks, sounding unsure for the first time. 

Scott moves the way he’s asked, wondering how he looks. He thinks it might be good, judging by the groan Stiles makes. Stiles presses the pads of his fingers into his hole as if to test he’s as loose as he needs to be, gives a shocked-sounding ‘oh’. Then he’s edging into Scott with the tip of his cock, slow and incremental. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, pulling out and easing in again. His voice is low and shaky. His strong, slick fingers dig into Scott’s haunches.

It’s okay, but it isn’t enough, and Scott doesn’t know how to communicate that without bucking back, bending his body down to change the angle. Stiles seems to take the hint, because he goes deeper on the next thrust, grinds and surges out almost all the way, before pushing in again with more force. 

“Fuck,” he says on an exhale, “You feel ---” 

He stops talking, shoves in faster. He arches over Scott’s back and slides his left hand up, to his shoulder. Scott cranes into it while widening his stance, wanting it, needing it harsher than this. Stiles fills him up and makes him feel whole and he never wants it to stop. It’s like his whole life has narrowed to this, Stiles’ breath jetting against his skin, his lips pressing insistent kisses against his spine, his cock lighting up his nerve endings. 

All of his senses feel like they’re working overtime. The sound of their skin slapping together seems to echo around the room, intermingling with shallow breaths and small grunts. Scott’s overwhelmed by musk, sex and sweat. He tastes salt and Stiles against his tongue, a faint imprint that he wants to renew.

He glances over his shoulder to see Stiles’ hair falling onto his face, his eyes closed and eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. He sees an expression that’s soft, reverent and loving when he expected mindless concentration and he can’t bear it so he faces forward again, strengthens his elbows and forces himself back into Stiles’ haphazard thrusts. He sets a rhythm, thigh muscles cording as he urges Stiles to fuck him harder.

“God, you’re so eager for it,” Stiles says, muffled into a tender part of his back. 

His grip tightens, his thrusts gain urgency. Scott thought it felt incredible before, but Stiles arranges them in such a way he starts to hit against his prostate on every nudge forward and he’s sure his eyes roll into the back of his head. His cock is achingly hard and leaking but he can’t wrap a hand around it yet or he’ll asphyxiate against the mattress. 

He’s only aware he’s started to whine when Stiles gives a shhing noise and circles his fingers around his cock. Scott jerks into it, breath hitching as Stiles’ thrusts become brutal. He’s already way too close to coming and this makes it even more difficult to stay restrained. 

“Let go,” Stiles commands, stroking him off with the same timing as his thrusts, “Come for me.”

That’s all it takes. Scott tenses all over before going boneless and molten. He’s dimly aware of spilling over Stiles’ knuckles, of clenching down on him, of trembling through the aftershocks of an orgasm that’s left him breathless. But mostly he’s floating somewhere else, lax and insensible to the wider world.

He realizes Stiles must have come and cleaned up when he feels a body settling next to him, one arm enfolding his torso. He dozes for a few moments, trying not to think about the last time he shared a bed with someone, about the last time he felt like this.

“I miss the way we used to be,” Stiles whispers, so quiet Scott knows he wouldn’t hear it if he didn’t have super hearing. It’s like a punch to the solar plexus, but he understands. 

“Me too,” he offers back.

“You think we could ever go back to that?”

“Probably not.”

Scott rolls out of bed, gathers up most of his clothes and goes to the bathroom. He stares at himself and tries to see if it’s obvious that everything’s changed. It isn’t. He looks the same now as he did this morning. He showers, scrubbing away the evidence of his foolishness.

When he goes back to Stiles’ bedroom he toes his shoes on, turns to say goodbye, but Stiles is pretending to be asleep.

*

The ascension ritual is supposed to be in three hours’ time. Scott’s honed his Old French to the best of his abilities and hopes everyone else has done the same. He’s pacing outside work, curious as to what could be keeping Dr. Deaton. He told him to meet him here ten minutes ago. He isn’t usually late. Eventually he gets bored and restless and he uses his key to let himself in. It’s immediately apparent that something is terribly, horribly wrong. The front counter is singed and split in two. The potted plants are stuck to the ceiling. As Scott walks into the back office his shoes crunch against broken glass and there’s multicolored dust in the air. 

“Dr. Deaton? Alan?” he calls, knowing it’s futile, but needing to do something. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, is halfway through calling Lydia when he’s knocked on the back of the head.

He swivels around on the floor, choking in the surrounding thick smog. He can see a vague shadow and he kicks up, lashes out, but doesn’t connect with anything. He gets his hands under him, wincing as he lacerates his palm on a sharp sliver of glass. He’s about to vault upward, when what feels like a metal coil winds around his throat and starts to crush. He can’t breathe, can barely move. Scott struggles with all his might but seizes as an electric shock runs through his body. 

He claws helplessly at the air, unable to ungrit his teeth. His fangs dig into his lips, his heart begins to race, then slow. Scott writhes, but nothing he does helps him gain control. His windpipe is closed off, his torso is sparking and his final thought is that he has to survive this, he has to make it through, he has to save everyone or what was the _point_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally normal to update a fic after this length of time, yes? There's a section of this that I paraphrased in another fic when I thought I may never finish this one. This story is going to need another chapter before it's finished, too. Sorry.

Scott has woken up groggy and disoriented before, but not with his hands zip-tied behind his back, ankles zip-tied together, or the smell of singed skin in the air. He’s in one of the clinic’s storage rooms, surrounded by shelving and gleaming gray walls. He’s been dosed with something, his muscles not responding with the kind of strength he’s usually capable of. Each movement he makes feels like the sudden drop sensation before startling awake in the middle of the night. It doesn’t feel like Kanima venom nor wolfsbane, so he spends a few minutes wondering what knowledge the Minions might have that he doesn’t. 

On the one hand, he feels cheated out of a normal life of never having had to know these things exist at all. On the other, he feels cheated out of a life of being fully informed about everything he encounters. Derek’s been trying to teach him – better, this time, with words rather than menaces. So has Alan. But there are only so many hours in the day.

Alan. God, Scott hopes he’s okay. He’s not sure how he’d handle his loss. He’s had far too many close calls and Scott’s never truly had the chance to thank him for everything he’s done. He needs to distract himself, needs to occupy his mind, so he doesn’t obsess over losing another person he loves.

Scott strains his senses. He can’t see or smell anything out of the ordinary, but if he tips his head to one side he can just about hear muffled voices coming from outside. 

“… killed him.”

“Can’t yet. The ritual clearly states… life-force.”

“Blood.”

“Blood, yeah…. alive.”

Scott doesn’t catch every word, but he gathers the gist of it. He struggles against his bonds, but all that gives him is a dislocated shoulder which causes him to bite back a howl. His hand hurts -- he can feel the skin knitting itself back together, his throat aches – inside and out, his shoulder’s pulsing, and all in all, he’s miserable. Not quite as damaged as when he first began to realize he and Stiles weren’t going to easily fix their friendship, but definitely feeling pretty shitty. He leans his head back against the wall and tries to steady his breathing, to formulate some kind of plan. The only ones coming to mind bring more pain and danger. 

Scott’s been more pessimistic lately. _Realistic_ a little voice chimes in. And he thinks it’s entirely possible he might die here today, after the Minions get what they need. You hear that your blood is needed, probably to trigger the apocalypse, it becomes kind of hard to be a Pollyanna or Pippi Longstocking about your life and future. 

Once upon a time, Scott had had dreams. He’d wanted to play on the lacrosse team, get good grades so he could go to a college that would see him as an asset, and study to become a vet. They were all the surface aspirations, but deep down, what he’d wanted was respect and responsibility. Not the truth of them -- something that crushed and weighed him down, filled with endless expectations he could never meet. But the ideal. He’d always wanted to be something more than he was, and now that he has that, is that, he realizes what a foolish thing it was to wish for. That’s the nature of inexperience and youth, he figures. To want something not only impossible, but _incorrect_. 

He doesn’t want to die. He hasn’t been exactly hopeful, lately, but he doesn’t want it all to end. He’s not sure he believes in an afterlife, let alone the concepts of heaven and hell. Demons don’t come from hell, they come from another plane, that as far as he’s aware, can’t be easily breached. If he were to die, he thinks he’d be met with nothingness, and maybe that would be a kind of peace – but all he can think about is everyone else dealing with the fall-out. He doesn’t want to die, but if he sits here and does nothing, that’s likely to happen _anyway_. So, maybe his next actions will speed up the process, but he’s tired of simply waiting and reacting all the time. 

Scott takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets out his loudest, most ferocious howl. It rattles the packets of dog food on the shelves, sends a jar tumbling and smashing on the ground. Heavy footfalls stomp toward the door of the storage room and suddenly he’s confronted with a short, stodgy man who looks like an accountant, and another who looks like a substitute teacher. They’re wearing sweater vests, for Christ’s sake. Scott flashes his red eyes at them, gives an affected snarl. 

They close the door behind themselves; so they’re not _completely_ incompetent. Or so Scott thinks until they start speaking.

“He shouldn’t be awake,” the shorter one whispers, frantically.

“Shut up, Gregory.”

Gregory shoves his taller companion back two steps. “You told me you gave him enough that he’d be out until the ritual, Dastan. _You_ shut up. I told you we should’ve killed him while he’s out of it.”

“Sounds like you’re being very short-sighted, Gregory. How are you going to help Agares ascend without my juicy, juicy Alpha blood?” Scott taunts, figuring the more he can rile these two up, the less coordinated and cooperative they’ll be.

“He knows!” 

Dastan levels Gregory with a frankly impressive death-stare. “He’s a child.”

“What should we do with him?”

Dastan casts a gaze over Scott, seemingly sizing him up and finding him wanting. “Knock him out again. He’ll be easier to transport.”

“It’s not far, we may not need to.”

“It’s a precaution, Gregory. A wiser one than killing him before it’s time.”

It’s interesting. They don’t seem to know much about Scott, his strengths or his weaknesses. Maybe he was being too generous before, assuming they hold more knowledge than he does. He can use this to his advantage. Scott’s always happy to let people underestimate him so he can gain the upper hand. He concentrates his listening skills, trying to determine how many Minions may be nearby, while rocking back and forth dramatically, pretending he’s using all of his strength.

He hasn’t regained all of his powers yet, but sensation is coming back to his extremities, and if he can catch these idiots off guard, he has a chance. Something that has him wanting to pull harder at his bonds is a series of heartbeats – tempos he’s intimately familiar with. From what he can hear, there are two more Minions stationed outside the clinic, and creeping up on them are a werewolf, a kitsune, and a werecoyote.

Did they hear his howl? Are they here because of Alan? Can they sense that he’s trapped? 

Scott very deliberately twitches until his toes are pushing up against the shelving unit on his left, kicking until more objects begin to topple and crash to the ground. Dastan swears, moving forward and grabbing his legs. Scott allows his body to be hauled forward, sliding onto his back, grabbing some shattered glass along the way. Gregory is fumbling with a needle as Scott carefully works at the zip-ties at his wrists. He isn’t able to cut through them completely, but he does weaken them enough that they’ll snap when he’s ready. He rolls again, forcing Dastan to sit on him to keep him still.

He can hear some of the fight outside, though most of the noise is over surprisingly quickly. There were a few smashes, pained groans, and wild sounding grunts. Stiles’ heartbeat is the loudest sound. It could almost be right next to Scott’s ear. It’s still rollicking along at a fast, even pace, so Scott assumes his pack is winning the battle. 

Gregory leans down, holding the needle awkwardly, hovering it above Scott’s thigh. As he gets closer, Scott surges forward, head-butting Gregory as he drives Dastan into the wall before slamming them both together with his newly freed fists. Gregory’s out cold, but Dastan begins to scrabble up, eyes set on the needle that’s an inch away from Scott’s knee.

Scott gets there before Dastan can, sinking the needle into Dastan’s forearm. It’s self-defence, but he’s still hopeful the injection won’t be lethal as the other man’s eyes roll back until the whites are showing and he slumps over his fellow minion.

Scott’s managed to slice through the zip-ties at his ankles when the door crashes open again and Stiles is standing there, a graze on his forehead, his skin pale and clammy-looking, his eyes wide and fearful. 

Scott hobbles up to standing, grateful when Stiles moves and props his arm up, helps him walk from the room. 

“I can’t believe you. It’s like you got captured out of spite,” Stiles says. His tone is still shaky and it’s obvious he can tell Scott’s not at 100 % health. 

“Yup. Wore a ‘kick me’ sign and everything,” Scott counters, smiling at Kira and Malia as they pull two unconscious men into the storage closet. He leans on Stiles as he watches them methodically tie the Minions up. 

“What were you doing here?” Kira asks, frowning as she brushes fingers against his neck. 

Scott guesses he still has garrotte marks. This might account for the tight hold Stiles has on him, how his heart has increased rather than slowed down, how he keeps swallowing, glancing at Scott and then determinedly looking away.

“Alan told me to meet him here.”

“No he didn’t,” Malia says. “He’s at your house, preparing the final ‘inoculations’, whatever that means.”

“It was definitely his voice,” Scott insists. “His number.”

“I hate magic,” Stiles states, vehemently, eyes flashing gold for half a second. 

“I hate it when it’s used against us,” Scott says, because magic is only evil in the hands of evil-doers and he’s always hoped his pack could learn to use it to their advantage.

Stiles doesn’t appear to agree with his sentiment. “You mean all the time.”

Scott’s pleased Stiles doesn’t relinquish hold as they move to the front of the clinic. The potted plants are smashed on the ground, dirt and debris everywhere. The scent of burnt wood lingers in the air. Kira telephones Lydia and explains about the Minions tied and locked up together. 

“Is it over now?” Malia asks, brusque. “We have half of them contained. Surely they can’t continue the ritual?”

“I would love to say it’s over now, but somehow I doubt it,” Scott says, wincing as his chest begins to loosen and he gains further sensation in his muscles. Getting electrocuted is easily in his top ten of worst ever things to happen to him. “We were wrong before about how many of them there are, right? These guys didn’t have the brain power to coordinate even the simplest of Minion tasks. They all seemed expendable.”

“Do you know why they needed you?” Stiles asks next, jaw tight.

“Yeah, blood sacrifice for the ascension. They said they needed me alive for it. I was drugged with whatever was in the needle I used on the Minion named Dastan.”

Stiles peers at him, eyebrows raised. “You drugged him?”

“Well, it didn’t kill _me_ , so I’m gonna trust it won’t kill him either.”

Stiles softly mirrors Kira’s action from earlier, grazing his fingers against Scott’s throat. “Right. Anything else you can tell us?”

“They were gonna take me somewhere else, not too far away. That’s all I know. How did you know I was here?”

“We could sense that something was wrong,” Malia says, leaning against the broken counter, folding her arms. “We went to the school first and then Kira remembered we could check the GPS of your phone.”

“And then we heard your roar,” Kira adds. “It was amazing.”

Stiles nods, knocking into Scott’s side. His heart-rate is still high, so Scott tries to stroke a finger surreptitiously against Stiles’ arm, encourage him to calm down. “It was pretty impressive. You’ve clearly been practicing.”

The next hour is full of hurry up and wait. Alan and Lydia have enlisted the help of Chris and Noah to find out the whereabouts of the other Minions and Scott and Stiles elect to wait with the ones they’ve captured. Kira and Malia are sent on a herb-finding mission by Alan, and they seem happy to be doing something productive. 

Scott’s gaining more strength with every minute, but he doesn’t want to admit that because he’s enjoying the warmth and weight of Stiles’ arm around him as they lean against one of the metallic benches in the main patient room of the clinic. There’s a tingle up his spine that has nothing to do with the last vestiges of drugs lingering in his system. One of the Minions in the storage room has woken up – an outside guard, from what Scott can tell – they don’t sound like Gregory or Dastan as they start swearing at the top of their lungs.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Scott says, softly, knowing it doesn’t need to be said, but wanting to say it anyway.

“You were like a minute away from rescuing yourself,” Stiles replies. “I saw those two assholes knocked cold.”

“Yeah, but I still appreciate the help.”

Stiles gusts out a sigh and then moves. Scott’s worried he’s going to let go completely, sever their connection and become cold and closed-off like usual. But instead, he cradles Scott’s jaw and presses their foreheads together, nuzzles against him. 

“I will always rescue you.” He strokes a hand down Scott’s back and presses a kiss against the corner of his lips. “Even if it’s from myself.”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles pulls away at last, puts distance between them. There are twin blotches of pink in the hollows of his cheeks and his lips are ruby red, but that’s the only color in his face.

“No. Listen. You need to hear this. I was finding it hard to control my anger over the situation and I let it manifest as anger toward you. I shouldn’t’ve done that, and I knew it, so that just made me worse. Made me worse. The guilt’s been fucking me up, Scott. I don’t know how to handle it.”

“I know that,” Scott says. “I know you. This isn’t news to me. But I don’t entirely _get_ why you feel guilty. The nogitsune—”

“The nogitsune showed me what it was like to have power and I fucking _loved_ it. You _know_ what it’s like to go from being a weak, harmless creature to one brimming with strength. When I had control over it? It was the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. Part of me wanted to clutch onto that with everything I had. I remembered that for every kill, every injury I inflicted, every word I said.”

“But you weren’t in control for those moments, were you?”

“I may as well have been. I sometimes feel like you think it was about me giving up -- me begging you not to bite me.”

Scott sucks in a breath, holds it. He stares at Stiles, wills him to look into his eyes. “That’s because I sometimes think that.”

“It wasn’t about giving up. Not at the heart of it. It was about reparation. I should be dead.”

“Why?” Scott says, quietly, though he wants to scream it, wants to take Stiles by the shoulders and shake the answer out of him.

“What?”

“Why should you be dead?”

“Because it’s the natural order of things. After what happened I should have sacrificed myself to save you, to save everyone.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“What, like you wouldn’t do the same thing?”

It’s obvious that Stiles thinks this is something Scott has never considered before, that he’s arguing with brand new information, that nuance is lost on Scott, but these are the thoughts that have echoed through Scott’s head on countless occasions. Stiles seems to think that Scott views the world in black and white, but to be honest, he doesn’t even see it in gray. 

The truth is complicated. Scott isn’t the paragon of virtue Stiles tries to paint him as. He isn’t the monster he first assumed he’d turn into. He isn’t selfish, but he isn’t _selfless_ either, and he knows the difference between a hawk and a handsaw.

“If there was another way? No, I wouldn’t. I know it sounds the opposite of heroic, but in the same situation I’d hold onto my life with everything I have and refuse to let go. Stiles, _you_ didn’t kill anyone, the nogitsune commandeering your body did. You didn’t need some huge redemption, because you didn’t do anything wrong. You were a victim, same as any of us.”

“But the problem is, Scott, you’re a liar. You’re a hypocrite,” Stiles says, his voice cracking. “Maybe it’s a lie you’ve led yourself to believe, because recognizing the truth is overwhelming. But it’s a lie all the same. You almost killed yourself over Derek when you were more enemies than allies. You damn near sacrificed yourself here today.”

“That’s different.”

“Not enough.”

“Your eyes are amber for a reason. Part of you knows that you’re innocent.”

Stiles looks away from Scott’s gaze to glare at the ground. “We don’t really know how any of that works. But I can guarantee that if you’d died today, my eyes would be ice blue tomorrow.”

“You think you feel things stronger than I do?” Scott asks, feeling numb, but for the first time, he doesn’t think it’s the drug he was injected with. 

“Yes? No. Maybe. Sometimes. I think I’m worse at controlling it than you are.”

“I agree with you there. I’ve been a werewolf longer than you have and I spent half my childhood suppressing my emotions so my dad wouldn’t yell at me. You’re right, because I’ve had more experience in this area.”

Stiles’ face screws up and he draws even further away.

*

It’s mid-afternoon when everyone turns back up at the clinic. Stiles is on the other side of the room and it’s like he’s lost a limb, but Alan wraps Scott into a hug and his mom joins on the other side, before insisting she checks him over. Melissa tuts as she examines his neck, though he looked in the mirror and knows it’s a faint pink mark by now, looks like a necklace got caught temporarily.

The hustle and bustle of so many bodies is disconcerting and overwhelming. Scott listens to conversations, offers the meagre information he has, weighs in on decisions to the best of his ability. Derek’s surprisingly good at seeking his viewpoint, when Chris, Noah, Alan and Melissa attempt to speak over him. Scott backs him up in return, asks for his advice. By the time it gets dark, Derek and Alan work out that Scott was drugged with henbane.

“They thought Scott was a werechicken?” Malia asks, her face scrunched up adorably. “Was this some kind of voodoo black magic?”

“No,” Derek says, unsuccessfully smothering a smile. “I don’t think it’s poultry related. It’s a poisonous plant also known as stinking nightshade.”

“Then why name it so it sounds like a hen’s worst enemy?”

“There are competing theories as to the etymology of the name,” Alan says, deliberately patiently. “And I would be very concerned if the Minions of Agares have such a misguided understanding of Vodun.” 

“But given the intelligence level of the people we’ve currently got under house arrest, I wouldn’t completely put it past them,” Scott contributes. He looks up to see Stiles suppressing laughter, feels his heart grow three sizes. 

Weirdly, the day ends up not being the absolute worst. He hasn’t died, Stiles displayed an emotion other than anger and opened up, and they’ve captured Minions that Chris says he’ll extract information from. Maybe, his pessimism from the morning has paid off and allowed him to see any small win as a gigantic victory. Or maybe, just maybe, his life isn’t irredeemably shitty. 

Also, the ascension ritual doesn’t happen, because the good news is that they need Scott to do it. (The bad news is: they need Scott to do it.)

*

Chris leaves and then comes back with a van that they haul Gregory, Dastan and the Minions Stiles named Stu and Dave into. Derek and Chris take them to a facility Chris has access to where there are holding cells. Scott’s a bit ambivalent about it.

“I’ll stop Chris from shooting them in the head, and he’ll stop me from tearing their throats out, okay?”

“I sure know _I’m_ completely reassured,” Stiles replies in place of Scott, who’s half-thinking _he_ wants to be the one to take responsibility for finding out whatever they can, and half-thinking he’s sick and tired of shouldering the burdens of the world.

“Please be careful,” he says, though it’s unnecessary and empty, as comments go. 

Derek pats him on the back. “Go home and rest.” He leans closer, tone going gentle rather than patronizing. “A good Alpha knows how to delegate.”

Once upon a time, Scott might’ve cut back at that remark, but he’s appreciative of the support. 

The rest of the pack goes to Scott’s house. It’s slightly larger than Stiles’, but has the same wards and warning signals. They don’t have a discussion about it, but somehow everyone agrees to stick together. They make whatever food they can from the pantry, fridge and freezer – it’s been a lean month and Scott and Melissa haven’t had time to do a Costco run – sit around eating and speculating on what comes next. 

Scott’s regained full strength, can feel it thrumming through his veins, but his mind and body are exhausted. All Scott wants to do is crawl into bed beside Stiles and sleep. He doesn’t know if Stiles will agree to that, but he’s going to ask for it, because nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Stay with me?” he asks, when the older members of the group have insisted they go to sleep, setting up bedding in the living and spare room.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Just to sleep.”

Stiles shakes his head, curt. “I’ll be down here.” He seems to sense Scott’s disappointment, because he reaches forward and grasps his shoulder. “Not far.”

He understands why Stiles wants to keep his distance. It still hurts, though, deep in the depths of him. People frequently retell the story of flying too close to the sun with an emphasis on Icarus, but Scott always thinks about how Daedalus must’ve felt, essentially destroying the person he loves the most by trying to rescue him. Stiles is dealing with things that Scott can’t help with, that Scott’s partly to blame for, and that knowledge digs into him from multiple angles, cores out little pieces of him.

Stiles feels far away as Scott huddles under the covers and settles down to sleep. Scott can’t get comfortable for the first twenty minutes, can’t stop his tired brain from replaying, rehashing, revising the events of the day.

He imagines what might have happened if Stiles, Kira and Malia hadn’t appeared. He can’t lie to himself and say he didn’t gain confidence when he heard them. Knowing someone had his back gave him the will to follow through with his plan. But he thinks he would have been successful, and that isn’t entirely because Gregory and Dastan are the lowest of low-rent villains. He’s getting better at this, at analyzing his abilities and limitations. He can think on the fly, formulate and execute plans. He’s gotten good at predicting patterns of behavior and adjusting accordingly.

Yeah, he fucks things up, but he’s _getting_ there. Wherever ‘there’ may be.

He’s drifting off, eyes heavy, when Stiles pads into the room and slides next to him, stealing more than his fair share of the comforter. Stiles curls until he’s facing the door, his back at Scott’s side. After a few moments he flails back and tugs on Scott’s wrist, drags him until he’s tight around him, torso to back, like a blanket.

“Hey,” Scott whispers, rubbing into the soft material of Stiles’ shirt.

“How do people do it?”

“What?”

“Talk about their feelings. I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m sad. Feels dumb. The words can’t even accurately convey it, how the emotions burn under your skin and melt you down, until you’re nothing but molten lava subsuming everything in contact.”

Scott considers the question for moment, wishes he had any answers. “I have no idea,” he says with a huff of a bitter laugh. "We should probably learn.” He pulls Stiles closer, rubs the arch of his foot against Stiles’ shin and entwines their legs. “Thank you for trying, though."

*

It’s early morning when Scott wakes up. Faint light is cascading into his room through a gap in the blinds and birds are chirping from the trees next door. He’s warm, relaxed, and it takes a moment to realize it, but he’s turned on. His dick’s hard, nestled perfectly between Stiles’ cheeks, their boxer briefs the only thing between them, and Scott unconsciously grinds in for a few more seconds before he comes to his senses. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he mutters, attempting to pull away, but Stiles clutches hold of his forearm. 

“Don’t be. I’m into it,” Stiles says, rubbing back against him with sinful rolls of his hips. 

Scott presses a kiss against Stiles’ neck. “I wanna be into you. Fuck so strong and deep you’ll feel me for days.”

“Oh my God, you can’t say things like that when virtually everyone we know is down the hall or downstairs,” Stiles says, giving a shocky tremor. “Especially considering half of them have super-hearing. I don’t think I can live with even more shame in my life.”

Scott continues to move against Stiles, sighs against his skin. “This isn’t shameful. But if anyone’s actively listening in, they’d be smart to stop right about _now_.” He slides his hand down until the heel of his hand is over the thick line of Stiles’ cock. He squeezes experimentally, uses his fingers to map the size and shape, help him visualize Stiles straining against the material.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, before this goes far enough he’ll forget to ask. If Stiles’ reluctance isn’t for show, if he doesn’t want to do this, Scott will hate himself forever if he continues.

“If you stop I’ll bite your dick off,” Stiles returns, canting his hips into Scott’s movements. He looks over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded as he slides his hand over Scott’s and guides him. 

Scott uses his free hand to sweep a lock of hair off Stiles’ forehead, smooth the line between his eyebrows. Stiles’ eyelashes flutter and he cranes back further, angling for a kiss. Scott contorts until he can press their lips together momentarily. The position’s awkward, but it’s worth it for Stiles’ sigh against his lips when they part. He’d love to be able to stare at Stiles while they do this, but common sense prevails and Stiles twists until he’s facing forward again, so Scott bends and kisses his neck again instead.

The sensation of Stiles against him has Scott all riled up. He’s painfully aware there are only two pieces of fabric stopping him from feeling the catch of skin against the head of his cock, obsessed with the heat and friction of the curves of Stiles’ ass. He imagines what it’d be like to pull down Stiles’ waistband, prep him with the slick that’s only two feet away, and slide deep within him. 

Stiles moves with an innate sense of rhythm and it’s hypnotic, slow and sensual. The smell of sex and sweat in the air, the sounds of Stiles’ hitched breathing, it all contributes to the shimmer at the base of Scott’s spine, the tightening of every single one of his muscles. Stiles’ boxer briefs are damp at the front and Scott enjoys the wet drag of the material against his fingertips. He wonders if it looks translucent, if the shape of Stiles’ dick is perfectly molded. 

“Oh fuck,” Stiles bursts out, loud against the muted sounds of birds singing outside. 

Scott’s about to ask why, but then he feels the pricking of Stiles’ claws on the back of his hand.

“How did you learn to pop a boner without popping your claws?” Stiles asks, moving his hand down to clutch at the bedding.

“Diligent practice.”

“Oh great, now I’m imagining it. Scotty, that’s the opposite of helpful.”

“I’ll train you out of it,” Scott promises, sliding his hand beneath Stiles’ waistband and stroking him off in long, sure pulls. “We can use one of the timers you requisitioned from Finstock.”

“Are you trying to edge me by bringing him up? Fill me with the least sexy visuals known to man?”

Scott smiles, then nuzzles into the thin skin behind Stiles’ ear, whispers, “Maybe.”

“It’s surprisingly ineffective.”

Stiles begins to shuffle so that he’s rubbing up against Scott with rhythmic precision. He bucks forward into Scott’s strokes and teases his dick mercilessly. The rasp of damp material gives the perfect amount of friction to the head of Scott’s cock, gives this all a pleasure-pain element that has his stomach muscles constricting, his blood pounding loud in his veins. 

“Can you come like this?” Scott whispers, tasting salt and sweat as he mouths against Stiles’ neck.

“Seriously? What’d’you think?”

“No?” Scott teases, feeling Stiles impossibly go harder within his grasp. So much of his life has been pain lately, and this, this sense of wonderment and joy, is something he wants to hold onto.

Stiles sucks in a couple of deep breaths, moves until he can kiss Scott on the lips again. He moans as Scott continues to curl his fingers around his length, but has stopped shifting against him. To get what he wants, Scott needs to cant his hips, has to grind and thrust and press. Stiles whimpers softly against his lips, quieter, but somehow more passionate. 

The room is getting brighter, more sunlight streaming in. Scott’s nerves are singing with the sensation of Stiles against him. He wants to bring Stiles off before he comes, so he tightens his grip and speeds up, husks out a jumbled collection of sounds to urge him on. 

“Oh f—“ Stiles says before he starts to shake and ropes of come spill onto Scott’s knuckles. 

He wriggles in Scott’s hold, and that movement, that wild abandon, is what has Scott pressing his cock between his cheeks one more time and coming, hard. 

He drags his damp palm up Stiles’ stomach when Stiles bats his hand away from his dick, murmuring something about “Too much”, grinds a couple more times until he’s sure he’s worn a hole in Stiles’ boxers.

“I know it’s just a werewolf thing, some kind of hormonal feedback loop in our alpha-beta dynamic, but it’s seriously the hottest,” Stiles croaks out after a few minutes.

Scott kisses the side of his neck, his jaw. They’ve changed position, with Stiles lying mostly on his back, and Scott cocooned around him. They’re touching in several places; points of contact that Scott’s deeply aware of, like the pull of the moon.

“It isn’t just a werewolf thing. Not for me. This came before.”

“You thought of this before? Us like this?”

“On occasion. Every summer night the year we turned 14. The first week I saw you in your lacrosse uniform. Early Sunday mornings when my mind would wander and I’d think about the blush you’d get if I offered to practice making out with you.”

“Sounds _super_ occasional,” Stiles says, his gaze resting on Scott’s fingers rubbing against his abs.

“You’re ridiculously attractive. I’m a growing boy. I trust you the most out of everyone. Of course I’ve thought about us.”

Stiles glances into his eyes at that, looks nothing short of flummoxed. His lips part and he licks at them quickly, blinks a few times. “You know how I have trouble talking about my feelings?” he asks.

Scott hums his assent.

“That includes the positive ones too. I don’t think there are words for this. Or if there are, I don’t know them.”

“No,” Scott says. “I know what you mean. But maybe we can find them together.”

**Author's Note:**

> The nature of the consent issues revolves around Scott biting Stiles against his will. There is also some suicide ideation there. Neither of these things is presented as necessarily right.
> 
> Come say hi [on tumblr](http://lozenger8.tumblr.com) if you want.


End file.
